<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Death Crossing by MercyA</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25507933">Death Crossing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercyA/pseuds/MercyA'>MercyA</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Death Crossing [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Death Stranding (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asexual Characters, Bridge Babies (Death Stranding), Character Death, DOOMS (Death Stranding), Death Stranding Spoilers, Gen, Minor Character Death, Post-Game Story, Timefall is a bitch, beta read (mostly), buckle in kids this is gonna be a long one, long fic, physical and psychological torture, reconnect america they said it'll be fun they said, some graphic scenes, world building</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:20:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>89,010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25507933</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercyA/pseuds/MercyA</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years following the Aversion of the Last Stranding, the UCA is plunged into chaos when a terrorist cell storms Capital Knot, seizing control of the BRIDGES Headquarters and the Chiral Network.</p><p>Something wicked haunts the Beach. Someone wants to punch God in the face. Sometimes we lose more than our hearts can take. </p><p>So it's time for someone to step up and save the world...again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>BB-28 | Louise &amp; Sam Porter Bridges</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Death Crossing [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. It's Always Cloudy in East Knot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which we meet Elle, our protagonist</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Someone told me that once, there was an explosion. A bang that gave birth to time and space. Once, there was an explosion. A bang which set a planet spinning in that space. Once, there was an explosion. A bang that gave rise to life as we know it.</p><p class="western">And then, came the next explosion.</p><p class="western">It sounds like a bedtime story, something I had recounted to me as I would drift to sleep. The words have stayed with me, like the tail end of a dream I haven’t been able to forget. A tune I can’t get out of my head.</p><p class="western">Not that I have many dreams – nightmares is more appropriate. I’ve been diagnosed with DOOMS, they call it down in the labs. Does it stand for anything? No one really knows. No one’s told me if it does.</p><p class="western">I lie in bed, counting the minutes until my alarm goes off for the morning. It’s nearly four forty-five am, nearly time be up for the day. I stare at the blank ceiling above my little bunk, and I will myself to rise, for once, earlier than my alarm.</p><p class="western">It doesn’t work, and I only swing up and out of bed after it buzzes. The lights come up in my apartment as they sense movement, a cheerful tone wishing me good morning. Everything is so clean and sterilized, perfectly in place, from my work uniform hanging in the decontamination chamber by the door, to the heads-up display on the table by the bunk, informing me of all the latest news from beyond the city walls.</p><p class="western"> “Feels like rain today,” I say, to no one in particular, right as a bell chimes somewhere off to the side by the comms panel on the wall.</p><p class="western"> “Rain?” a voice asks from the comms panel speaker. “There’s no incoming data from the Weather Station today saying anything about rain.”</p><p class="western"> “I feel it,” I try to ignore the feedback from his end of the line as he moves around his lab and I change from the pair of sweats that I slept in, branded with the company logo on the thigh and across the breast of the track singlet, into my jumpsuit uniform. The decontamination chamber hisses softly as it slides shut after I grab the dark blue uniform. Leaving the top half of the jumpsuit undone with the sleeves tied around my waist, I rub at the hairs on my arms, standing on end and sending a prickling sensation running up my arms. Like a million little ants furiously marching towards my face. Definitely rain coming today – and a lot of it.</p><p class="western">I reach for the bottle of capsules on the table, and down two of the foul-tasting tablets before my groggy brain can protest too loudly.</p><p class="western">The voice on the other end of the line is a large, strange man I’ve only ever met maybe a dozen or so times in person. I shove my bare feet into a pair of BRIDGES issued running shoes, tapping the toes on the cold hard floor to settle my feet into them comfortably. Deadman begins to recite a list of his morning’s news to me, which I only half listen to as I juggle on my cuff link, his voice switching from the comms’ panel down to my wrist as I swipe open my apartments door and head out.</p><p class="western">The coming rain has me feeling fidgety, like I can’t truly pay attention to the complicated ramblings of the heavily scarred doctor chattering away in my ear. I make my way down the quiet hallways. It’s an odd in-between time for other workers here – either they’re still asleep and not on shift until later, or they’re already out and working. I pass no one in person in the hall – I very rarely do.</p><p class="western"> “...and I’ll need you down here for that before you start shift today,” I catch the tail end of his request, rounding the corridor and taking the steps two at a time up towards the ground level of the apartment facility. I blink; I really shouldn’t have been so tuned out to him.</p><p class="western"> “For what, sorry?”</p><p class="western">There’s a sigh, and I wave my cuff across the ID scanner to open the facilities main doors, a soft hiss registering with a mechanical beep before the seals crack and the doors slide apart, revealing a darkened, heavily clouded sky. A chill breeze touches my warm face, and I can almost taste the Chiralium in the air – a bitter tang with a weird after thought.</p><p class="western"> “I’ve had some interesting results back from the blood work analysis we did last week,” Deadman repeats himself. “But I have to compare it with a fresh sample – something I can only get if you come down to the lab. I arrived in East Knot last night with Doctor Wickerman, he’s eager to meet you.”</p><p class="western">Something in my stomach flip-flops. I had really been looking forward to all this testing and analysis coming to an end – I had been officially cleared fit for duty about three years ago, but there were always more tests to run, monthly check-ups and medication dose adjustments. Deadman had been an oddly comforting presence among the myriad of other strange faces and voices coming in from all angles with their probing questions and constant prodding.</p><p class="western">I stood in the entrance way, watching the clouds roll and morph across the predawn sky. It was always cloudy here. They said that even after the aversion of the calamity ten something years ago, even though the Timefall was less constant and more predictable, and even though the Chiralium in the atmosphere had dissipated somewhat, it was still always cloudy here. And it most likely always will be.</p><p class="western"> “...Elle? Are you there?” Deadman’s voice chirps in my ear, sounding concerned.</p><p class="western"> “Yeah, I’m here,” I reply slowly, taking a few steps into the open away from the facility. “Just going on a run. I’ll be there in twenty.”</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <strong>-:-</strong>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">East Knot City is the only city I’ve seen, so I have little to compare it to, but if ever I had to paint a picture of it, it’s very drab. Not at all like the cities of the Pre-Death Stranding. All the educational texts and old media that’s been recovered over time show that once upon a time, before a huge explosion, cities were wild and sprawling, with towering buildings and winding suburban streets. Trees and plant life sprouted from every corner and once there were even parks. Houses – actual houses designed and built by people who chose what their structures looked like and how they were decorated. Bright lights illuminating shop windows in every colour of the rainbow.</p><p class="western">Here, it’s as if someone set the whole city’s colour scheme to grey-scale. Buildings still tower, but their windows are mirrored and dark. Streets are straight and set in long, rigid lines. There are artificial trees and fake grass lining the sidewalks, but everything is so neat and perfectly manicured. Even here on the outskirts, where I make my way at a jog towards the bridge leading out to the edges, where the Distribution Centre lies in it’s solemn silence like a great beached barge right by the shoreline. It’s hull is clear of Timefall rust and decay, but there’s a few circling gulls overhead deciding just where to shit so that long white streaks run unapologetically down it’s broad shell.</p><p class="western">My face is red and sweaty by the time I’ve made my loop around three separate blocks and out over the city exit bridge to the guarded waystation that stands between me and the outside world. Out there, there are trees and grass growing freely, no manicured lawns – just Timefall pocked-rocks and mossy outcroppings. Blackened streaks of earth where the rains hits hardest, where the Beached Things rise and reach for any poor sod who passes too close.</p><p class="western">The educational material we were given covers what little there is to know about the BT’s, but regardless of what it all says, you really don’t need to have more than two brain cells to rub together to know that BT’s are a Very Bad Thing. I’ve been at the Distro Centre long enough to overhear the local Porters and Couriers tell their tales of terrifying inky hand prints crawling across the ground towards them, tar splashing up in their wake. They all crow over how brave they are with their fancy hematic grenades. How we owe all our bravery to the Porter who reconnected America.</p><p class="western">Ten years after the guy disappeared, they’re still singing his praises. Even down in my apartment facility, to other BRIDGES members, Sam Porter Bridges is a household name.</p><p class="western">Slowing to a walk halfway across the bridge to the waystation, I wonder, not for the first time, what happened to him. Deadman knew him – he often fondly recalls the weird man who hated being touched. Deadman’s favourite, and I think, saddest, memory to recount is how right at the end, right before the Porter disappeared off the face of the earth, he had allowed Deadman to hug him. Twice. Deadman’s proudest achievement had, apparently, nothing to do with his crowning achievements in medical research or researching the event of the Death Stranding – or even his part in preventing the cataclysmic world-ending Last Stranding – no, it was apparently getting a hug from a man who kept everyone at arm’s length.</p><p class="western">I raise my cuffs to scan my ID at the waystation scanner, and an automated chiralgram of a BRIDGES security guard appears to wave me through the force field barrier that cut off the satellite city of East Knot from the rest of the big bad world.</p><p class="western">I mean, I guess I can understand why Deadman would be so proud of that.</p><p class="western">Being the only one out here, at any time of day, is an oddly unnerving feeling. For a country united by an otherworldly technology that connects everyone and everything under one great big banner, it really feels like there’s still no one out here on the surface. The concrete is solid enough beneath my feet as I walk, and I can feel the wind rising as it blows in from the quiet ocean – something to do with the anti-gravity effect of the Death Stranding, the tides have all but completely disappeared. It’s hard to believe there were once waves brought crashing to the shore by the pull of the moon. Just as hard to believe there’s little more than twenty-thousand people living in East Knot City – which is considered a satellite city by comparison to Capital Knot, way across the voidout crater of what happened to Central Knot, East Knot really isn’t much more than a minor settlement.</p><p class="western">And it’s still silent as a grave – you’d think ten years after all the bullshit passed and the countryside wasn’t so inhospitable anymore, people would be more inclined to go outside. But it’s still the same, I’m told, as it was before the great Sam Porter Bridges stopped the Last Stranding. The masses are still too scared to look out their windows and there’s only a small handful of the general American population actually capable of stepping out and working to reclaim the world.</p><p class="western">I’m greeted by another chiralgram as I reach the Distro Centre’s entrance platform. Two security guards flicker into view to wave me down the long ramp.</p><p class="western"> “You’re early this morning Elle,” one of them says. They’re probably standing in an office somewhere, their get-up all for show as they project their figures out to the rest of the world.</p><p class="western"> “Got some stuff to do for Deadman before I start,” I reply, glancing away from their eyes. I feel them watching me as I step around their holographic forms and head down the ramp into the depths of the Centre’s foyer level. I hear them say something else, about good luck, and I try not to look awkward as I throw a thumbs up over my shoulder.</p><p class="western">There’s a quiet ping on my cuff, echoed by a ping up on the top deck in their own cuffs, and I get a small notification that they’ve received my Likes – one for each of them. They holler their thanks and I get two returned Likes by the time I’ve reached the circular elevator platform and the cargo terminal.</p><p class="western">I’ve never really known how these Likes work; it’s like a friendly point system between BRIDGES crew members and porters. Everyone wants to get the most Likes they can.</p><p class="western">Taking the elevator down into the bowels of the facility, I step off at the fourth level down – just below the Porter’s private room sector. The elevator whirs and clicks behind me as large white-coated doors hiss open and let me into the labs. It reeks down here, like chlorine and disinfectant has been scrubbed into every pore in the walls. Even way below the surface of the earth, I can feel the rain building somewhere high above me. It’s going to be a big one.</p><p class="western">Three hallways later, I’m arriving at a large, open floor plan laboratory room, with sleek and minimal interior decorating. Everything has a purpose and a place in here. And right in the middle of it all, pouring over a massive chiralgraphic screen, is Deadman.</p><p class="western">He told me once, that he was put together from bits and pieces of other people – a <em>Frankensteins’ Monster</em>. I had to go away and scour the Chiral Network for a copy of the work just to find out what the hell he was talking about. And really, I don’t see the resemblance, more than physically. He’s much more human than the pitiful abomination I read about. But really I feel like he was trying to connect with me, offer me something relatable when everything was terrifying and foreign.</p><p class="western"><em>Human connection is so important</em> , he’d said. <em>We need it to survive</em>.</p><p class="western"> “Ah good, you’re right on schedule,” he says now without turning around. “Come come, look at this.”</p><p class="western">I step up to his side, and he reaches around with surprising speed and grabs my wrist – before I can jerk back, he’s clapped a semi-circular cuff to my arm and I feel a three pronged needle stab into my skin.</p><p class="western"> “Hey! Ow – ” as quickly as he cuffed me, he yanks it out and turns back to his work, plugging the device into a terminal under his screen. “What the fuck?”</p><p class="western"> “Adrenaline test…positive,” he replies slowly as something pops up on the display in front of him. “But your blood sugar levels are looking quite low – have you had breakfast yet?”</p><p class="western">I shake my head.</p><p class="western"> “Can’t eat anything big this early,” I say as Deadman finally turns to face me, and I rub at the pricks in my skin. The area around them has already turned red, like I’ve had an allergic reaction. “Makes me sick.”</p><p class="western"> “Hmm,” Deadman hums are he looks me over. His gaze is analytical, a little stilted, as if I’m an unco-operative specimen not performing correctly under his microscope. After a moment of consideration, he wanders over to a shelf and picks up a jar, shaking it up as he returns. From their spots hidden within the small coral piece of the Seam contained within the jar, three squishy little cryptobiotes float out into view. “I know they’re not much for taste, but they will help.”</p><p class="western"> “Oh gross, please no,” I beg as he pops the lid and one floats out, chittering away when he quickly snatches it from the air with a gloved hand. “I still get nightmares that they’ll crawl back up out of my throat when I sleep.”</p><p class="western">Deadman chuckles as he holds the cryptobiote in front of my face.</p><p class="western"> “Say ‘<em>ahh</em>’. Doctor’s orders my girl,” his hand hovers patiently, and I screw my eyes shut and open my mouth. It’s a dry kind of slimy texture, wriggling with a squeak as I quickly bite down and chew. I try to imagine that it’s popcorn – squishy, squirming popcorn with a weird, sea-sand kind of taste to it. “Eat enough of them and you’ll get used to the taste.”</p><p class="western"> “Nope,” I swallow thickly and a shiver runs down my spine. Gross isn’t even the right word to describe the feeling, really. “Never got used to them when I was in quarantine, and I refuse to start trying now.”</p><p class="western">He’s already stowed away the jar back on its shelf, and is back to busily tapping away on his terminal. “Are you still taking your medication? Here, let me see your face.”</p><p class="western">Once again, Deadman is getting up close and personal before I can step away. There’s a bright pen-torch in my eyes, he’s tugging at strands of my hair to examine the ends, then he grabs my hands to scrutinize my fingernails and skin.</p><p class="western"> “Yeth,” I say as he pops a wooden stick in my mouth to press down my tongue. He <em>hmm’s</em> as he looks down my throat.</p><p class="western"> “Good, but for God’s sake start taking the pills with water,” he says disapprovingly. “You’ll burn away your esophagus if you keep taking them dry. Otherwise, you’re looking pretty good. A few signs of accelerated cell generation and degradation, and although I think we’re finally getting on top of that with the medication, there’s another thing I’d like to try as well.”</p><p class="western"> “More? Is this to do with those interesting results you got from last week’s tests?” I rub my eyes to stop the spots of light dancing in front of them from his pen-torch, and Deadman nods, waving his thick fingered hand at the terminals chiralgraphic screen.</p><p class="western"> “Indeed!” he seems so chuffed that I’m engaging him. I guess there aren’t a lot of people he gets to happily ramble and rant about his findings with. I’ve heard him talk of another scientist, out in the Central Region, who lives tucked away in the snow-covered mountains. But apparently the guy is only available for short periods, so Deadman must often spend more time musing his findings alone than in company. “Look here. From last week, you’ve aged forwards a whole three months – the chiral contamination in your cells is gone, however there’s still evidence of complete cell renewal on a molecular level. Far too quickly for only a week’s time. Sadly, you’re still aging at an abnormal rate.”</p><p class="western">I blink at the screen – it’s all just mumbo jumbo to me, really – Deadman might be able to make head or tail of it, but I sure can’t. I just nod along.</p><p class="western"> “I don’t feel like I’m aging that fast,” I say kind of stupidly. “Not like when I was first brought in.”</p><p class="western"> “No no, we’ve managed to stall the process dramatically since then,” Deadman replies. “Three years ago, you were nothing more than a child, and I was fearful we wouldn’t find a way to stem the phenomena before you were an old woman! But you’ve responded well to the treatments, and there’s just some fine-tuning to be done, I think, and we might finally have this oddity of yours under control.”</p><p class="western">I find my eyes on the floor, not wanting to see Deadman’s gaze on me. It’s a mix of pity and fascination. Three years ago, I was a seven year old girl, stumbling around a voidout crater crying my eyes out. Today, I’m physically and mentally approaching the age of twenty. Other children probably don’t have to deal with this kind of thing.</p><p class="western"> “Don’t let this get you down, Elle,” Deadman says kindly. He’s gotten a lot softer over the years, I think – I’ve had other technicians tell me that he used to be more cut and dried, less pliable in his willingness to relate to others. “We might not be able to give you back the years of childhood and youth you’ve lost, but we can certainly make sure the rest of your life isn’t over far too quickly. Here.”</p><p class="western">He heads over to a machine off to one side, and it gives a small bip as it registers his approach, opening a tray filled with dark red vials. Plucking one out, he holds it up for me to see.</p><p class="western"> “Synthesized repatriate blood,” he says, before the look of pride on his face drops a little bit. “Artificial, I’m afraid – we were lucky to get as much as we did from our old friend before he left, and from it we can recreate the same blood synthetically after the last of the organic stuff ran out. But I was thinking, long and hard – and I wonder if perhaps this might have some properties that can help to slow your condition.”</p><p class="western"> “Repatriate?” I say, and Deadman nods.</p><p class="western"> “Yes. Mama – Malingen, that is – collected a lot of it from dear old Sam whilst he was working under BRIDGES, to synthesize hematic grenades and bullets for use against BT’s. It came in handy to incorporate strands of the blood into other things as well; ninety-nine percent of Porters and Couriers out there now carry some kind of equipment laced with his genetic material.” Deadman comes back over, and he looks sadly at the small vial in his large hands. Like he’s looking at a keepsake of a lost family member. He sighs deeply. “What a shame, he could never come to see just how he connected the country, in more than just the Chiral Network.”</p><p class="western">There’s a moment of awkward silence as Deadman gets lost in thought. I shift, a little uncomfortably.</p><p class="western"> “You really miss him, huh?” I say, and Deadman looks up at me, blinking behind his big owlish glasses. “He really meant a lot to you.”</p><p class="western">Deadman clears his throat quickly, before stepping back over to his terminal again.</p><p class="western"> “Yes, well. We can’t just dwell on the past all the time, can we?” he places the vial into a slot on the semi-circular cuff that he’d used to stab me with earlier. “My theory is that, incorporating repatriate blood into your own system might assist in slowing down the process, perhaps even stopping it all together if you have a big enough dosage.”</p><p class="western"> “I don’t really want to be immortal, Deadman,” I reply, something shifting in my stomach. Maybe it’s the chewed up cryptobiote, or just my own nerves.</p><p class="western"> “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t freeze your aging altogether,” Deadman chuckles, and the awkwardness eases a little. “But this might just be the key to bringing your body back into alignment, as it were. It’ll be just like a little blood transfusion, just to help re-set your system to how it should properly function.”</p><p class="western">I shuffle back and perch on myself on the reclining patients chair by his desk space. I’ve spent countless hours in this chair over the last three years, ever since Deadman took on my case when I was first brought in to East Knot.</p><p class="western"> “Are you sure?” I play with my hands as he shifts around at the terminal, readying the cuff again. I’m not looking forward to this. “What if I have a reaction to it? Last time I had a transfusion I came up in hives, remember. Not sure what the blood of a repatriate will do to me.”</p><p class="western"> “Yes, I remember. Nasty stuff those hives,” Deadman says over his shoulder. “But I have a working theory, and if I’m right, this will do you far more good than it will harm.”</p><p class="western"> “Want to share this theory before you stab me again?”</p><p class="western"> “You were found in the Central Knot City voidout crater, weren’t you?”</p><p class="western">I blink.</p><p class="western"> “Huh?”</p><p class="western"> “The voidout crater. Where anti-matter meets matter and goes <em>boom</em>.” Deadman says, turning to face me. The way he’s holding the cuff makes something like a rock drop in the pit of my stomach. “The official report notes that three Porters found you wandering, yes? Just a lost little girl, stumbling around a pit where all life is sucked away and replaced by horrific soul-devouring Beached Things. Central Knots’ been gone for eleven long years now, but that’s where they found you, among the rocks and the tar.”</p><p class="western"> “Yeah...” I start, not really knowing what to say.</p><p class="western"> “I have a theory that, like the Great Deliverer, you might just be a repatriate yourself,” Deadman says, tapping a finger to the vial locked into the cuff. “Of course, I have no way of testing this theory, because to do so would mean you would have to die. And for the majority of the world’s population, death is the end-game. No coming back from it. And on the off chance that I’m wrong, there’d be no bringing you back from that. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take, just on the minute possibility that you too have the ability to spring back to life.”</p><p class="western">It feels like a blanket has been draped over my head, like I can’t quite hear him anymore. Being a repatriate is never something I’d considered before, nor had it ever been brought up as an option. Deadman suggesting it now was...odd. Maybe it’s because he’s been thinking about his old friend.</p><p class="western"> “So...what, you think I died and repatriated in the crater?” I ask, and Deadman shrugs.</p><p class="western"> “It’s the best I can come up with – you’ve not exactly been much help with clearing up how exactly you ended up in the crater,” he says, and I pull a face. He back-pedals a little. “Not that your amnesia is your fault, of course – it’s a completely understandable reaction in children suffering severe trauma’s to repress memories that are too much for them.”</p><p class="western">I let out a slow breath. It’s not really a topic we’ve broached very much; at first, there were a lot of questions and I couldn’t give them the answers they wanted. Other doctors kept pushing and prodding, some even had me under sedation to try and see if I could remember anything whilst medicated. I don’t remember a lot of that, either, apart from the fact that I hated it – and Deadman had been the one to call an end to it. In that sense, as weird as he was, I was lucky to have him looking after me.</p><p class="western">His hand touches mine, and he’s gentle this time, taking my arm.</p><p class="western"> “Do you consent?” He asks. I nod, not wanting to meet his eyes.</p><p class="western"> “Yeah, go on. But I throw up in your trash again can you can’t blame me for it.”</p><p class="western">Deadman lowers the cuff onto my wrist, and the needles extend and sink in again. It’s a dull ache, turned sharp when he draws the cuff back off after a moment, the dark red liquid inside it being quickly flushed into my blood stream.</p><p class="western"> “If you throw up in my trash can again,” he says with a soft smile. “I’ll make you eat another three cryptobiotes to make up for what you lose.”</p><p class="western"> “Gross,” I roll my eyes as he steps back, the procedure complete, and I rub my hand over the fresh new needle marks. They swell up a little with dots of blood, before Deadman quickly wipes them over with a damp bit of gauze.</p><p class="western"> “All done,” he nods contentedly. “Now, I said that Doctor Wickerman was eager to meet you, and fortunately I can spare you the chagrin so early in the morning.”</p><p class="western"> “Why’s that?”</p><p class="western"> “He’s been called into a meeting with other BRIDGES scientists.” Deadman says, waving his cuff-linked arm in the air. A small chirp comes from his terminal as he sets aside the cuff with the vial. “So he’ll be busy for several hours yet. You’re free to go on shift now, but be sure to swing back here before you head out for the night – if I don’t let him meet you at least once on this short trip he’ll chew my ear off all the way back to Capital Knot.”</p><p class="western">As I get to my feet, Deadman taps away at his terminal again.</p><p class="western"> “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be back here later tonight then.”</p><p class="western"> “Good girl,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder. “And mind your language around him, all right? I don’t mind your swearing and cussing – God only knows where you learned it – but Wickerman is a very straight laced man. We want to make a good impression.”</p><p class="western"> “Why? He’s just another scientist on the Council Board.”</p><p class="western"> “Not anymore. Haven’t you been paying attention? The Board has just elected him into the position of BRIDGES new Director.” Deadman casts me a look. “He’s not just another scientist anymore; he’s our new boss.”</p><p class="western"> “Wait, Gardener stepped down?” I must’ve missed it completely – the terminal by my bunk would definitely have had updates pertaining this kind of information. I just...don’t pay enough attention. “Is she all right?”</p><p class="western"> “Rihana Gardener took her leave from BRIDGES two days ago,” Deadman nods. “It was kept quiet from the public, but she’s been battling cancer for the last year. She’s being confined to the isolation ward; her condition is worsening and they fear she’s only got a few days left. Corpse Disposal is getting ready to do the run up to the Incinerator.”</p><p class="western"> “Yikes,” it’s as if the breath’s been knocked out of me. I’d met the previous BRIDGES Director a few times in my three years here – she had been a kind smile behind her dull grey suit and badge. Apparently she came recommended by the UCA’s President himself. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”</p><p class="western">Deadman shakes his head sadly.</p><p class="western"> “Well, she’s taking it with grace and dignity, at least,” he says. “And she’ll have her family there by her side until the end. At least we now have that luxury – ten years ago we’d still be hurrying around to get it over and done with; there was always time for mourning later.”</p><p class="western">I’d seen the Corpse Disposal team only a few times; Porters dedicated to the incineration of bodies from within the cities. Their bright orange jumpsuits made them stand out in a crowd. One of them, a girl named Monika, used to sit with me in the cafeteria when I’d first been inducted into BRIDGES. She had been transferred out to join the team in Capital Knot about six months later. We never spoke much but the company had been nice. Back then I was still struggling with medication doses and swung wildly from looking like a ten year old and a teenager.</p><p class="western">She hadn’t judged, unlike the other looks I used to get. After Monika transferred away, it was easier to just stay down in the lower levels and keep working through breaks, or I’d come here and sit in Deadman’s lab – he’d call in via chiralgram and I’d just hang out til it was time to go back to work.</p><p class="western">As if on cue, my cuffs beep, informing me that it’s now six o’clock. Time to get moving.</p><p class="western"> “Ah, that’ll be your cue,” Deadman says, coming over to see me out of the lab. “So remember, please, for my sake, Elle – be on your best behaviour, all right?”</p><p class="western"> “All right, all right,” I agree as I twist one side of my cuffs; there’s another beep, and I’m officially clocked in for work. Just got to get down to the storage levels now. “I’ll do my best.”</p><p class="western"> “Good girl,” he pats me on the shoulder as I step out of his lab, and I turn back to give him a Like. A little blue thumbs up appears over his cufflinked wrist, and he smiles. “And let me know if you experience any ill-effects of the transfusion. Any dizziness and light-headedness, sickness or epidermal reaction.”</p><p class="western">I nod as I leave, waving off his words over my shoulder. I head back down to the elevator, and ride it further into the seemingly endless depths of the Distro Centre. It always gets to the point where I feel like surely I’m getting close to the centre of the earth, when the elevator platform stops and pings. In reality, this level is really only maybe ten storeys below ground level, but it’s still far below where most other BRIDGES members work.</p><p class="western">I’m greeted by a holographic sign as I step off the elevator.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <strong> <em>Chiralium Transport, Storage and Dispensary; BRIDGES Distribution Centre Lower Levels.</em> </strong>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Every time I see the sign, I can imagine Deadman’s voice in my head, saying how ironic it is that Chiralium is what caused this disturbing condition that rapidly ages me without rhyme or reason – and yet, being a DOOMS sufferer and having bounced back from the contamination despite the weird side effects, I end up being one of the people most suited to working with the stuff.</p><p class="western">The same cheerful voice that wished me good morning in my apartment chimes in over the PA system; my cufflinks being scanner-read and acknowledged to grant me access to the facility. Automatically signed in, I pull up my jumpsuit top over my singlet and stuff my arms through the sleeves before zipping myself up and snagging a pair of the large disposal rubber gloves from the supply rack. Here, there’s already a few others signing in and starting their shifts. I’m waved at and wave back, but even now after being here for a couple of years I still don’t feel comfortable enough to return their smiles and friendly chatter.</p><p class="western">Everyone here at BRIDGES loves everyone else. It’s kind of a given, really. I’m almost at the point where I’m not even sure how real and genuine people are anymore – everyone’s so happy to be getting along it almost feels phony somedays. The Pre-Stranding history material on the Chiral Network records all manner of conflicts between people for every reason imaginable. Ethnicity...sex...gender...religion…domestic reasons… it kind of seems like back then, people would fight each other over anything.</p><p class="western">Maybe it’s the whole death-looming-at-our-door thing that makes everyone here want to get along. Or maybe there’s a big conspiracy and those who question the system get disappeared. Or maybe they’re secretly fumigating our rooms with noxious gases that make everyone super happy all the time.</p><p class="western">...I don’t think that last one is as feasible as the others, I guess, but when you’ve got unrestricted access to all recovered media and writings of a world gone to absolute shit, it’s hard not to speculate a little bit. It passes the time, anyway, when you’re deep in the bowels of a giant anthill working one tiny job out of the many thousands going on around you.</p><p class="western">I head into the basement level of the facility floor, down amongst the huge Chiralium storage tanks. One time someone told me they had been designed to function similarly to grain silo’s on a similar height scale but half the general circumference, as Chiralium crystals shatter and crumble so easily and that the tanks don’t need to be as broad as Pre-Stranding silo’s were, given the compactibilty of the contents. Despite that, the tanks height go from just below ground level all the way down here – apparently they had to extend the depth of the tanks way further into the earth to accommodate the enormous amount of Chiralium crystals being harvested and donated after more and more Porters began to grow some balls and travel through BT infested territory, cutting free many of the thousands of mournful souls still clinging desperately to the earth from the beyond.</p><p class="western">Work for me has become so routine I can do it mostly without thinking by now. Orders come in from elsewhere in the facility, or from Porters needing crystals to coat or power their PCC generators or watchtowers; I dispense Chiralium into the required containers, fill out the dispensary end of the order form, and then send it all back up to the top. Up there, from what I can gather, someone checks off the order form and takes the Chiralium for its intended purpose. It’s a relatively simple process, but it can be time consuming when the storage tanks lose connection to the rest of the Network – something that often happens this far beneath the earth. Sometimes there’s Porters donating crystals into our systems – donations are easier to do and barely require more than a few command confirmations via cufflinks to have the crystals filtered into the tanks.</p><p class="western">My day goes by quickly, early morning giving way to daytime, but the only real indication I have of time passing way down here is the beep of my cuffs to tell me when it’s 1pm – break time. At the same moment, ten more orders come in and register. Other BRIDGES staff on this level have already begun filtering out and up towards the cafeteria. I readjust the gloves and twist my cufflinked wrist to acknowledge the orders instead.</p><p class="western">Looks like I’m working through my lunch break. Despite the awful taste of it, I’m glad Deadman made me eat the cryptobiote earlier – it’s kept any hunger at bay for hours. Someone back from their break a while later brings me a bottle of water and a couple of protein bars, and tells me not to work too hard. I don’t even have to awkwardly thank them, thank God, because they’re already heading back to their own station. Luckily enough, Chiralium dispensary is a solo station job, so I’m mostly on my own at the bottom levels.</p><p class="western">Towards the end of my shift comes another part of the routine – despite how accurately Chiralium is tracked when orders are filled and dispensed, there’s still mandatory level testing to be done - ‘dipping’ the tanks if you will, to get a reading on how much there is left in each storage tank. By this time of the evening, my stomach has well and truly decided that breakfast and those protein bars were a long time ago. I pull on a fresh pair of gloves and swipe up the hanging key for the storage tanks in preparation to head up the elevator to the ground level. The key looks like a simple block of metal, encoded with some sort of lengthy equation. Hanging around my neck is a very similar one that’s only half as big – apparently when the Porters found me, it was the only thing I had on me, and I refused to give it up. Deadman had said something about it a few times, but I’d always felt so damn protective of it, that I’d taken to hiding it from him at our appointments, and eventually he’d given up.</p><p class="western">I’m caught thinking about it as I head up to the elevator platform, and as I look at the storage tank key in one hand I fish the broken chunk on a chain out of my jumpsuit front with my other – the piece I’ve got has clearly had its bottom half cracked off, lost somewhere in oblivion, most likely – but has the start of one of those equations on one side. The other face has a very roughly engraved ‘L’ on it. I suspect there was more to it that broke away on the lost piece.</p><p class="western">It’s how I got my name, this little chunk of my past that I have no recollection of. Between the trauma of whatever had happened to me, plus the Chiralium contamination that Deadman theorizes is the source of my bizarre condition, I have no idea what my name truly is. No clue who my parents were. More than likely, they were killed in a voidout, leaving me behind. But this piece of...<em>something</em> was the only thing I ever really cared about keeping, and so Deadman himself started to call me ‘L’ in the labs when I was in quarantine. As my body kept trying to fast forward to old age without any regard for me, and as Deadman and other BRIDGES scientists fought nail and tooth to make it <em>stop</em>, all I had from before was this pendant piece.</p><p class="western">So eventually, when it came to registering me with BRIDGES for employment, Deadman and I had kind of shrugged when asked to register my name, and we went with ‘Elle’.</p><p class="western">He’d tried to make a joke of it, saying, “Well, it’s a start of something, at least.” Ha-ha, very funny. The start of something, a name possibly, some indicator of who I was before I was a lost child in a crater. Elle, the start of something new, instead.</p><p class="western">I’ve hardly noticed the ride up – the elevator pings and suddenly I’m on the surface level of the Distro Centre floor again. Tucking away my pendant and stuffing the tank key into my pocket, I'm met by a cargo hold that's now a hive of activity. Porters are coming down the ramp, chatting and laughing to each other as their Odradeck’s clap and flash at their shoulders. Distro cargo handlers are moving stock and packages back and forth, someone’s even got a forklifts out to move a bigger shipment of materials across the Centre’s floor from the delivery terminal to the hold lift.</p><p class="western">It’s a busy evening here; although I feel it must be like this throughout most of the day, really – I just never see it, being way down in the Chiralium storage level. As I head up the ramp towards the darkened night sky, one of the Porters heading down raises a hand and gives me a thumbs up, his odradeck waving cheerfully at me.</p><p class="western">“Evening, Elle.”</p><p class="western">His name is Corey, I think – he usually returns to the Distro Centre in the evenings having been on cycle runs to and from Capital Knot all day. It’s almost embarrassing that I’m not a hundred percent certain of his name, and you’d think I would be; he’s one of the three Porters who found me in the Central Knot City crater. He’s one of the men I owe my weird life to, really. It’s nice, in a sense, that he likes to keep in contact whenever we see each other.</p><p class="western">“Hey,” I give him a small wave back, and he pauses as his odradeck extends towards me – on his chest, there’s a darkened pod attached via a cable and trance link; a Bridge Baby, who unveils itself in a warm yellowish glow. The baby burbles happily in the pod, and the odradeck makes a hand shape with its clappers. I can’t resist giving it a little high-five back.</p><p class="western">“Neat, right? It’s been practicing that trick all week,” Corey says proudly, and I smile. It <em>is</em> cute, even it’s still a bit weird. The Bridge Baby wiggles around in its casing of fluid, and my cufflinks ping – the bottled fetus has just sent me a Like.</p><p class="western">“Wow, that’s cool,” I send a Like back, and Corey chuckles. “Big day out there?”</p><p class="western">“It’s quiet at the moment,” he replies. “Almost too quiet, but we’re making the most of it whilst we can, you know? Managed five round trip deliveries today alone between the showers.”</p><p class="western">Something inside of me feels a little proud, and now I think about it, over the noise and clatter of the other workers, I can hear the rain pouring down overhead.</p><p class="western">“So it <em>did </em>rain today,” I say.</p><p class="western">“Oh yeah – it’s bucketing down,” Corey replies, showing off his damp jumpsuit. “Can’t believe it really, it’s like the big storms they were recording before the Aversion; we’ve had more rainfall out there today than we’ve had in the last few months together. But the Timefall seems to be holding off, so the cargo’s not been too badly affected.”</p><p class="western"> “Cool,” I shift a little, looking for a way to politely end the conversation – the Porter would happily talk for hours, and aside from Deadman, he’s really one of the only people I’ve not minded having to spend time with. But today, all I really want to do is crawl back into bed. Between the building apprehension of knowing I’d have to go back to Deadman’s lab first to meet Doctor Wickerman, and the strange feeling of unease that’s I’ve had since this morning knowing the rain had been on its way, I really just want the day to be over and done with. But instead of ending the conversation gracefully, I mumble an awkward, “Well, uh, I gotta go check the tanks.”</p><p class="western"> “Yeah yeah, of course,” Corey nods sagely, patting the top of his BB’s pod affectionately. “Gotta get my last package sent in and then the kid’s gotta get back to it’s incubator. See you next time!”</p><p class="western">We part ways, and out in the open undercover deck of the Distribution Centre the sound of the rain overhead grows to an almost deafening roar. The whole world beyond the bright spotlights lining the canopy is inky black; I can’t even see the distant shape of the mountains against the sky.</p><p class="western"> “Thank fuck the dip points are sheltered,” I mutter to myself, and my breath spirals away in a big misty cloud. It’s cold out here, and I can already feel my fingers going icy inside my gloves. I duck out under a side canopy along the side of the Distro Centre’s hull, and follow the wall around to the very back of the building.</p><p class="western">Each tank needs to be manually checked, and I’ve been told it’s like old-world fuel tanks, just without half the risk of sparking fumes and everything catching fire. Kneeling on the concrete and prying up the lid to the dip point, I dig in my pocket for the tank key, and slot it into the rectangular hole just below where the lid sits. The point opens, and I reach in for the electronic dip-stick that measures the levels.</p><p class="western">As I’m finishing up the readings on the first tank and moving on to the second tanks dip point a few metres away, I can feel something prickling across my arm – a sensation that Deadman attributes to my DOOMS.</p><p class="western">
  <em>Something’s coming.</em>
</p><p class="western">I look up, scanning around me, but there’s nothing out here I can see. Nothing but the rain and the darkness beyond the floodlights, and my own chattering breath escaping my lips in big clouds. But the sensation travels up my arm and towards my neck. I feel the hair on my arm stand on end, and something itches across my shoulder. What the hell is out there?</p><p class="western">It’s a slight movement at the very edge of the spotlights reach, the point where everything goes dark. I think at first that it’s the glint of something reflective, but the more I stare the less it moves.</p><p class="western">I take the chance, and look back down at my work, trying not to think about it.</p><p class="western">Once I finish measuring the second tanks levels, I register the level readings on my cufflinks and close up the dip point, removing the key and closing the lid on the hole in the concrete. I stand slowly, feeling my knees creak and my hands trembling from the cold.</p><p class="western">Then my whole body shivers - and I spot it, right where I thought I’d seen movement. An inky black handprint has appeared on the concrete right at the edges of the spotlights’ cast light, some twenty metres away. I’m clapping my hand over my mouth before I even think about it.</p><p class="western">
  <em>BT. There’s a BT. There’s a BT within the Distro Centre’s protective field. </em>
</p><p class="western">Another handprint appears, almost lazily, welling up with black tar in the divot it leaves behind. Then another, and another, meandering into the light. I flatten myself up against the wall, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. Any movement more sudden would make noise, would alert it to my presence. I can feel the pressure in my ears grow as I try to hold my breath.</p><p class="western">Something trickles down my lip and over my gloved hand – I glance down. My nose is bleeding – of <em>fucking</em> course it is. How perfectly ironic, that I’m trying make myself as invisible as possible and now for no reason, I’m bleeding from my face. I press my hand back to my face and try to stem the flow, but I can feel it trickling over my fingers and down my palm.</p><p class="western">The hand prints pause, and I stare at the last freshly laid hand print, wondering for a moment if maybe the BT has drifted away. Why would it be searching here? It’s not as if I was making a huge amount of noise or fuss whilst measuring the tanks.</p><p class="western">My head’s spinning, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the fear prickling all over me or because my goddamn <em>nose is bleeding</em>, but I’m glad I’m already pressed to the wall of the Distro Centre; if I end up passing out at least I won’t make much noise falling. Maybe the BT will just pass me by completely. Maybe it’s gone already -</p><p class="western">A tar filled hand print appears, pointed right at me. Then another, just in front of it. Oh no.</p><p class="western">Suddenly, it’s like a static-filled screen trembles into my vision, and I can <em>see it</em> . A person, made of tar and static and dripping with what I can only really describe as visceral rot – floats just above the ground, and is staring at me. Its face is blank and blurred, but then it reaches a ghostly arm out, and another handprint <em>splats</em> onto the ground.</p><p class="western">It approaches, and over the din of the pouring rain it makes a guttural sound.</p><p class="western">I feel like my head is going to pop. I can’t stop myself from drawing in a breath, feeling specks of blood fly away from my lips as I exhale sharply through my fingers. Oh fuck. Oh absolutely fucking <em>hell</em>.</p><p class="western">The hand prints crawl closer, faster and more urgent, the strange groans and growls turning into a higher pitched noise, like a hunting animal closing in for a kill. The spectral figure rushes straight at me, and as I cry out I fling my arms out to shield myself. It won’t help. I’m about to be tar-ghost dinner and the cause of a voidout. Here goes an entire city, all because I can’t holding my fucking breath.</p><p class="western">Bye bye East Knot.</p><p class="western">
  <em>Sorry.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading this far, and big shout out to my buddy Mat for editing the crap out of this story for me. He's a champ.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Pandora's Box</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle and Deadman make an unpleasant acquaintance.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">I’ve been to the Beach many times. My Beach – the specific Beach where my soul finds itself, usually in my own nightmares. I don’t know if Deadman is right, with what he said about my being a repatriate, and if that means maybe I have actually died and ended up here, or if it’s just the DOOMS giving me these nightmares of the grey empty landscape bordered by jagged mountains and endless shoreline.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I taste sand. It’s crusted around my lips, like I’m </span>
  <span>lying</span>
  <span> on my side with half my face </span>
  <span>buried</span>
  <span>. I can’t do much more than peel open one eye a crack; I’m laying awkwardly, </span>
  <span>as if I’ve tumbled</span>
  <span> head over heels and have just been left crumpled up. It’s cold – it’s so cold here. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>The sky is just a roiling mass of cloud cover, the shapes and shades of deep dark grey threatening to pour down with rain at any moment, and there’s a breeze that </span>
  <span>cuts</span>
  <span> right through to my bones. Even my bones are cold, and I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so acutely aware of it. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Where are you, baby? I’m here now.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Her voice is a distant echo, somewhere far off, snatched away by the wind. My eye won’t close, no matter how hard I try. It’s like I’m no longer in control of my body.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Other visits to the Beach have been different. Sometimes I’m unable to move, most times I’m wandering aimlessly, filled with the most overwhelming sense of dread that </span>
  <span>makes me</span>
  <span> collapse and sit crying in the sand until I wake in the dim, dark hours of the morning in my apartment, my face still wet and my head pounding from crying in my sleep.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Hold on – I’m on my way.” There’s that sweet, soft voice again.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Who’s calling? Are they talking to me? I can’t do much more but watch the gentle push and pull of the tide, washing up dead sea life onto the sand around me. There’s something hard and cold touching my offside and I wonder, numbly, if it’s a rock or maybe the carapace of a crab. The sound of </span>
  <span>rolling waves</span>
  <span> is soothing, a quiet rumble that seems to take up the entirety of this space. No gulls wheeling overhead and calling. Every time a wave comes in, it splashes up and around the carcasses of the whales and dolphins that have washed ashore. </span>
  <span>V</span>
  <span>ague glints of light shining off their massive hulls, tiny water droplets dripping down from open jaws and rolling down drooping fins. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">There’s footsteps now, moving closer. Someone’s here? Maybe it’s the owner of the voice. I’ve never seen other people here on my Beach.</p>
<p class="western">Their footfall crunches through the blackened sand, and something appears at the edges of my vision – suddenly, she’s a blur of bright harsh colour in this lifeless landscape, and she comes straight up to me, getting down on her knees and reaching long pale fingers towards me.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Oh good, there you are,” she breathes. Relief floods from her words and I can </span><span><em>feel</em></span><span> her smile, even though I can’t make out anything more distinct about her face. My eyesight has gone blurry, like my eyes are welling with tears. “It’s time to go home, baby. You’ve been here long enough.”</span></p>
<p class="western">She scoops me up like I’m nothing, and cradles me to her chest. She’s so strong, holy crap – and...almost nurturing. I wonder if maybe she’s my mother, long lost to my amnesia. She cradles my head up and under her chin, and I feel her stroking my back, ever so gently.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Come on, sweetheart,” she breathes, standing. “It’s time to take you back. You’ve done so good, it’s going to be all right.”</span></p>
<p class="western">All right? Is she mad? The last thing I remember before I ended up here was a Beached Thing reaching towards me, grasping at my face with it’s cold spectral hands as I tried uselessly to shield myself from it.</p>
<p class="western">East Knot…</p>
<p class="western"><span>It’ll all be gone, now; </span><span>t</span><span>he Distro Centre, the city, </span><span>Wickerman – the brand new Director – and</span> <span><em>Deadman. </em></span><span>I feel a mix of guilt and anguish before it’s just as quickly washed away by the raw apathy of the fact that I’m here, on the Beach. It’s no longer my problem. </span></p>
<p class="western"><span>My eyelids finally feel heavy</span> <span>as I’m carried away</span><span>. There’s still the cold chill of the breeze but I’m feeling warmer, lighter. The sand on my face doesn’t bother me so much now. The clouds, way high above me, still coil and roll but they’re not so scary any more. I’m falling into sleep, peacefully, for the first time I can remember.</span></p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">-:-</p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">I drift into consciousness slowly, and my brain immediately wants to go back to sleep. It’s been the most restful sleep I’ve had in years; deep, and without any dreams of haunting visions. No Beach here anymore, just restful quiet.</p>
<p class="western">But now there’s voices, murmuring low somewhere off to one side. The lights are dimmed but as I crack open my eyes I can make out the low-lit labs emergency lights along the floor and walls in long strips. I’m lying on my back, and there’s a stiffness in my neck.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>You’re awake!” </span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I peer over my shoulder, and I see Deadman peering back down at me. His beady eyes are dwarfed by his eager smile, and he immediately shin</span>
  <span>es</span>
  <span> that damn pen-torch of his in my eyes again.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Ow! Fuck!” My voice is crackly and dry as I curl up in a ball and scrub at my face with the heels of my hands. Deadman hums to himself. </span><span>I blink away the dancing spots and try to sit up</span><span>. We’re in his lab, I think. “What – the voidout? East Knot – what happened to East Knot?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Voidout?” he asks, coming around in front of me. “What voidout?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I look around. We’re in the </span>
  <span>
    <em>exact</em>
  </span>
  <span> lab we were in this morning, although honestly, so many BRIDGES facilities have the same designs for just about all of their buildings and labs, we could have been anywhere. But Deadman’s here...he’s not been swallowed by the voidout I caused…</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>What happened?” I ask, and Deadman </span><span>presses</span><span> a cryptobiote to my lips. “Really? Right now?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yes right now. Say ‘</span><span><em>ah</em></span><span>’!” he nods. I pull a face but take it, chewing and swallowing as quickly as I can. It burns my throat on the way down – probably because I’m so parched. “Now slow down, Elle. You’re all right, you’re in </span><span>the</span><span> East Knot ICU lab.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>ICU? We’re not at the Distribution Centre?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Nope, this is my lab here in the Intensive Care Unit in East Knot,” Deadman replies, and my heart sinks a little bit. So we’re not in the same lab as this morning. The more I look around and try to focus, the more I see it as he summons the overhead lights to come on. </span><span>T</span><span>he set-up is a little different, there’s a shower cubicle set into one wall, and there’s no examination chair like there is in the Distro Centre. I take the cup of water he offers me, and suck it down gratefully. “You were found passed out behind the Distribution Centre, by the Chiralium tank dip points. Covered in your own blood and in chiral crystals – do you remember anything?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I can still feel the chill of the rain pouring down around me, the absolute terror flooding my system as the Beached Thing came racing </span>
  <span>forwards</span>
  <span>, screeching and moaning. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Crystals?” </span><span>I</span><span>t’s the only word that really registers in my brain.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yes,” Deadman nods. “Like you’d taken a shower in the stuff.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Its face pops into my head, blackened and dripping and screaming.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>There was a BT.” I say numbly, and Deadman cocks his head to one side.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>A BT? Within the security field?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yes. I was...I was dipping the tanks, and I felt it. It appeared and was searching for something – I saw the handprints.” I </span><span>try</span><span> to recall the whole </span><span>event</span><span>. “Then I saw it. Or it saw me. Or something. I was holding my breath, and my nose started bleeding. Wait – so I </span><span><em>didn’t</em></span><span> cause a voidout?”</span></p>
<p class="western">Deadman shakes his head with an odd look, before twisting his wrist. Nothing happens.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Bah...” he growls, shaking his wrist and </span><span>looking at</span><span> his cufflinks. “We’ve been having more and more Chiralium spikes recently, knocks the whole Network for a loop...there must have been a momentary black-out that caused a weak spot in the security field for a BT to get inside...”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I guess I haven’t noticed,” I mumble. I only use them at work accepting and sending out dispensary orders, and even then, that’s maybe four or five times an hour at most. Outside of work...I don’t use them very much unless I’ve got something incoming from Deadman.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Stupid thing, work!” Deadman is still poking at his cuff, which </span><span>flashes</span><span> on and off before snapping back to glowing bright blue. Finally a chiralgram display pops up, flickering into view. It shows a live security feed of the Distro Centre – clear as day. In...the daytime.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Wait, what time is it?” I find myself asking before I can stop, and Deadman chuckles.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>It’s a little past noon,” he replies, switching off th</span><span>e</span><span> chiralgram. “You’ve been out for a day and a half – slept like the dead. If we hadn’t been monitoring your vitals I would’ve thought you really had died. Now that would’ve been a sorry trip up to the Incinerator.”</span></p>
<p class="western">He laughs at his little joke, but I can’t join in. My head is spinning. I didn’t get swallowed by that BT, and I didn’t turn the entirety of East Knot into a crater.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>What happened with the BT, Elle?” Deadman asks me softly, perching himself carefully on the gurney next to me. </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I thought it was going to swallow me. It came right for me. I felt it grab my face. I guess I passed out after that.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Possible shock response,” Deadman notes. “Not uncommon when in highly stressful situations. You said that you saw it?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>And heard it,” I agree. </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Hmm,” he </span><span>replies</span><span>. “Well we can begin to gauge your level of DOOMS from this information, as before all we had was the classically exhibited symptom of the existential nightmares and visits to the Beach. The higher the DOOMS level, the more interesting your abilities are.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Huh?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Think of it this way; your level of DOOMS is what allows you a stronger connection with the land of the dead, as it were, and therefore your ability to see and interact with it. For most people with low level DOOMS, they can only sense BT’s and are plagued by nightmares. Others, with higher levels, can </span><span><em>see</em></span><span> BT’s, and have other interesting abilities. You recall the study material I gave you about the Aversion?”</span></p>
<p class="western">I nod. There had been a lot of talk about DOOMS in it, and how almost everyone involved in what we call the ‘Aversion’ of the Last Stranding had some level of DOOMS and abilities that went with the condition. Deadman is without DOOMS, but he had a solid and meaningful connection to others who did.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>There was a man who lead a terrorist separatist cell, who called himself Higgs,” Deadman says. “He had a very high level of DOOMS, something we very rarely see. At least a level seven, according to our delightful liaison at Fragile Express – the lovely lady Fragile herself.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I remember reading bits of the reports you let me have,” I say, rubbing at my arms. It’s relatively warm in here for a hospital lab. “Something about how powerful he was.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Scarily powerful.” Deadman agrees. “His abilities gave him the power to even </span><span>summon and</span><span> control BT’s; teleportation via the Beach, telekinesis, summoning Timefall. </span><span>H</span><span>e was a nasty, corrupt individual.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Sounds like it.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Well. My point is, is that now we can give you something of a rating of your own DOOMS level – you’re at the very least a level three, maybe higher. And remember how you predicted that Timefall storm the other morning? If you can sense the coming of Timefall, that could be indicative of a dormant DOOMS ability you may have. Of course, we won’t be able to tell the true extent, without putting you through more...</span><span><em>strenuous</em></span><span> testing.” Deadman gets up and putters around the ward lab, bringing back a small container. “Here. This is what you were covered with.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Inside the little glass jar is a crystallized shard of Chiralium, dimly reflecting little bits of light off its surface. I take the jar and turn it over and over in my hands; the Chiralium is thin and flaking a bit, flecks of it lifting and defying gravity to bob at the underside of the jars lid, but it holds it’s rough shape – the shape of a hand connected by a spiderweb-thin trail of Chiralium to what looks like half a cheek and mouth, like it had molded itself over the surface of someone shielding their face.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>It’s a hand...and a face?” I say, kind of dumbly.</span></p>
<p class="western">Deadman nods and takes the jar back, before taking my right hand in his and holding it up for comparison.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Oh my God that’s </span><span><em>my </em></span><span>hand. </span><span><em>My </em></span><span>face.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Correct. This is what happened w</span><span>hen</span><span> you must have put up your hands to shield yourself from the BT’s attack – when it touched you, it crystallized.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Something sparks in my mind.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>The repatriate blood – ” I start. “The transfusion you gave me that morning, you said it yourself; the repatriate blood has properties detrimental to Beached Things. My nose was bleeding, and I was covering my face with my hand, so it had blood all over it.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>And when the BT touched your hand, and your face, it touched the blood as well,” Deadman finishes </span><span>the </span><span>thought for me, and I nod slowly. “It does make sense; even the smallest amount of Sam’s blood was enough to deter a BT away from him. It’s how we got onto the idea to weaponize his blood, along with his other bodily fluids.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Great. Now I owe my life to Sam Porter Bridges, like the rest of the UCA. I try to squash the thought of what </span>
  <span>
    <em>other</em>
  </span>
  <span> bodily fluids Deadman is referring to.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Speaking of bodily fluids, no doubt you’d like a shower. I’ll be waiting for you in the common area down the hall – Director Wickerman is already there, but I’ll keep him busy whilst you get cleaned up.” Deadman goes to return the jar to its place on his desk, and I slide off the gurney. I’ve been stripped of my jumpsuit already, probably to prevent more chiral contamination, and I’m in little more than my track singlet and my underwear. I look down at my pale bare legs as my feet touch the cold floor of the lab. There’s the quiet hiss of the door and his footsteps fading away, and I’m left alone.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It’s not often I look too closely at my own body – there’s always an alien feeling of discomfort that accompanies any need to examine myself – more than likely due to how rapid the mysterious aging process has changed everything.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">Deadman once described the sensation as being a stranger in my own body, and I can agree with that. I push the thoughts aside and move over to the shower, stripping off and chucking the undergarments into the recycler. There’s always fresh ones waiting the moment I step out, so I keep my eyes anywhere but on myself as I turn on the hot water and let it cascade over me.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I take ten minutes to sit in the basin of the shower and ignore the rest of the world, thinking about what Deadman has said about the DOOMS. At the very least a level three, maybe higher. I wonder what else I’m capable of. When I’m pretty certain that Deadman and the Director </span>
  <span>will</span>
  <span> be starting to check their watches, I cut off the water and wait as the warm air blast-dries me before stepping out. As expected, there’s fresh undergarments waiting on a small dispensary shelf next to the cubicle, along with a plain set of civilian clothing. And, thankfully, a freshly printed pair of sneakers. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">Moments later, I’m stepping out of the ward feeling much better than I had when I’d woken up. Making my way down the hallway, I pass several other ward rooms very similar to the one I’d just vacated, some of them pristine, clean and empty, others with one or two occupants – one of whom catches my eye and I find myself pausing at her door.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>She’s propped up in her hospital bed, gazing out the window; well, it’s a chiralgram made to look like a scenic window </span>
  <span>overlooking</span>
  <span> peaceful, snow-covered mountains with a heart shaped lake nestled at the bottom </span>
  <span>of the valley</span>
  <span>. It takes me a moment to realize she’s not alone; the chiralgram also shows a tall blonde man in a d</span>
  <span>ark</span>
  <span> navy suit sitting to one side of her bed, reading a book. His outline is a little fuzzier, like he’s not entirely there, and if I hadn’t paused, I doubt I would have noticed him at all.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">He glances up and notices me, however, and softly clears his throat. The woman turns and smiles at me.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Elle, how nice to see you,” she says, reaching up and beckoning me into her ward. I feel my face flush awkwardly, but I step into the doorway nonetheless.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Director Gardener,” I say softly, and her smile broadens.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>It’s just Rihana now, darling – come in, come in.” She pats the side of her bed with a hand that’s got a catheter plugged into it, drip-feeding morphine into her system. “It looks like it’s my day for visitors.”</span></p>
<p class="western">The chiralgram of the man stands, and he pushes his glasses up his nose and reaches out a hand.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I’m Heartman, pleasure to meet you,” he smiles, and instead of offering to shake my hand, he turns the gesture into a thumbs-up, and my cufflink pings. I blink a</span><span>s</span><span> a notification pops up.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>+20 Likes from Heartman.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Wow, thank you,” I return the gesture, and Heartman nods in his thanks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your visit.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Nonsense,” Heartman says, setting aside his book. “I fear I may not have had adequate time to properly see Rihana off, so I felt it appropriate to come and sit with her a while. With all these minute black-outs across the Chiral Network disrupting our normal transmissions in the last few days, it’s hard to be available as much as possible.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>It’s a gesture that’s always appreciated,” Rihana nods. She’s only in her mid-sixties, if that. There’s a handful of lightening grey hairs streaked through her dark vibrant red curls, plaited away from her face as catheters and IV lines run down her arms, needles slipped beneath the pale skin of her wrists.</span></p>
<p class="western">The chiralgram on the wall morphs from the snowy scenery into a landscape of lush green marshland, edged by a forest of towering pine trees and ringed by snow-capped mountains. The grass in the foreground of the chiralgram shifts gently back and forth in the non-existent breeze. Rihana sighs as she gazes at it.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Isn’t it beautiful? The whole world out there has been healing itself for far longer than we’ve been trying to heal it ourselves,” she says wistfully. “One day I’ll walk those mountains, see those lands for myself.”</span></p>
<p class="western">I accidentally catch Heartman’s eye, and we share a look. He gives me a small, sad smile and a wink. My heart squeezes a little inside my chest. If Deadman’s correct, there’s not much more time for her here in the world of the living. But maybe she believes that her spirit will see them, free of earthly bonds. There’s a soft beep from the yellow-cased AED strapped to Heartman’s chest, and a synthetic voice pipes up from his cuffs.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Two minutes until cardiac arrest. Please proceed to a safe location.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Ah. I’m afraid I’m out of time,” he murmurs, before turning to Rihana. She smiles up at him as he leans in and gives her a kiss on the cheek. The chiralgram ripples over his features as he steps back and nods to me. “It’s been lovely getting to see you again, Rihana, and I hope perhaps I’ll have the chance to see you again before you go. And Elle, again, it’s a pleasure to have met you. Maybe we’ll see each other again in the future.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Thank you, Heartman,” Rihana says as his chiralgram gives us another thumbs up. </span><span>B</span><span>oth of our cufflinks ping with another twenty Likes, and then </span><span>Heartman’s figure</span><span> disappears from the room, but the scenery displayed across the wall remains, fading away much slower. She looks to me. “So I heard you had a bit of excitement a day or so ago, dear. How have you been feeling?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I sit slowly down in the seat that Heartman had vacated – he’d never really </span>
  <span>
    <em>been</em>
  </span>
  <span> there, but still. Rihana </span>
  <span>i</span>
  <span>s looking down at her hands, marked with little lines of age. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Better now I’m not staring a BT in the face. I mean, I thought for sure I was going to die and take the entirety of East Knot with me.” A thought occurs to me. “Wait…why are you here in East Knot? I thought you would have been in Capital Knot.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Rihana nods.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I was. But I requested to be transferred to the ICU here for my final days, as it’s much more peaceful here – they make such a big fuss over in Capital Knot,” she replies with a roll of her eyes.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Is...Heartman a friend?” I ask, keen to get off the whole death topic.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yes, a good friend. He’s a researcher, into the Beach and the Death Stranding,” she looks up at me. “After the Aversion, he and the team of BRIDGES members that came together to prevent the Last Stranding were hailed as heroes, but he’s always been more comfortable in his own company, really. I feel truly blessed that he chose to make the time to spend with me.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>Human connection is important</em>
  </span>
  <span>. That’s what Deadman had told me. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>That’s kind of him,” I say, suddenly remembering that Deadman and Wickerman are right down the hallway, </span><span>a</span><span>waiting my arrival. “Um. I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t stay much longer. Deadman and the new Director said they’d be waiting for me.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Ah, the new Director. Yes, Wickerman is a good man,” Rihana says, before reaching over to pat my hand. Her hand is cool, but not cold, like I almost expected. “Please, give them both my regards.”</span></p>
<p class="western">I awkwardly pat her hand back.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Do you...do you need anything? Before I go?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>No darling, having had a little bit of company is plenty,” she smiles warmly at me. I don’t know what kind of cancer </span><span>is </span><span>slowly destroying her from the inside out, but already she looks much more tired than when I’d first stepped into her ward. “I’m glad that you’re all right.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Thanks,” I say. “Uh, me too.”</span></p>
<p class="western">I wave goodbye to her from the doorway as I leave, still feeling awkward. It’s not as if we had any sort of true bond, I was aware of who she was and the status she held, and she was aware that I was Deadman’s freaky little experiment down in the bowels of his lab here in East Knot, and we had met a couple of times in person, but I don’t know if I’d say there had ever really been any connection. And I’m almost sorry that this is probably the last time I will see her, and that despite that, she was so adamant to remain kind and patient. If I was forced to sit around and wait on my body giving out on me, I’d probably be mad and restless as hell.</p>
<p class="western">Maybe this is why she made such a good Director of BRIDGES for so many years.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Deadman waves me over as I emerge from the corridor into the waiting room. He’s speaking quietly with</span>
  <span> a man who could only be Wickerman, </span>
  <span>over</span>
  <span> by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the outskirts of Edge Knot City where i</span>
  <span>t</span>
  <span> borders the ocean. As I approach, my cufflinks beep in a notification sound I haven’t heard before. Frowning, I look down at the little display hovering over my wrist.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-13 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-15 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-22 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">What?</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-5 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Uh – ” I don’t get much further, because not only is my cuff beeping, but I can hear Deadman’s and Wickerman’s cuffs both pinging off with the notification sound as well, drawing their attention up from their conversation.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-15 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-14 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Why is he docking Likes?” I wonder out loud. “What the hell did I do?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>You’re getting it too?” Deadman hurries over to me, cradling his cufflinked wrist in his other hand as the Likes keep getting docked. More and more, little red labeled notifications. “I can’t get in contact with him, he won’t reply. He must still be on the Beach.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>The Beach?” </span><span>O</span><span>ur cuffs are still pinging away with random amounts of Likes removed from our ID’s. </span></p>
<p class="western">Deadman tries to pat my shoulder reassuringly.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>It’s all right. He goes into automatic cardiac arrest every twenty-one minutes and spends exactly three minutes on the Beach each time before his AED kicks in to revive him, he should be perfectly fine,” Deadman says, but there’s a tone of worry in his voice. “Err, unless there’s something he’s encountered... perhaps on the Beach...”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>-23 Likes from Heartman</em>
</p>
<p class="western">I didn’t even know Likes could be taken away. But the notifications keep popping up, and now, Wickerman is at our side as well. His dark hair is slicked back and tied neatly in a short ponytail, and somehow it comes off as a professional look when combined with his suit and tie.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Is it a glitch?” he asks, and Deadman shrugs helplessly. “The Network’s been dropping out constantly recently, maybe something’s glitched in Heartman’s system?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I don’t know, I’ve never seen this happen before.” He replies. “It’s almost like he’s trying to tell us something.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It’s a constant, insistent beeping that’s starting to ring in my ears. Not to mention the fact that losing so many Likes is ridiculously disheartening. Until now, I’ve never had a Like docked from my ID tag. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">I turn to Deadman, about to ask him what the hell do we do, when I realize that Director Wickerman has gone very still, his eyes fixed somewhere outside the confines of the ICU beyond the plated glass windows. The world outside is quiet, still. As it always has been.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It takes me a moment, but I realize too that </span>
  <span>it’s quiet </span>
  <span>
    <em>inside</em>
  </span>
  <span> the ICU </span>
  <span>as well</span>
  <span> – the pings of our cufflinks ha</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> stopped. I pull up </span>
  <span>my heads-up</span>
  <span> display, and stare at the now scrolling list of notifications, each one detailing a different amount of Likes docked by Heartman. Suddenly, my cuffs go dark – they’ve lost connection to the Network entirely, and I shake my wrist.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Uh oh,” I murmur, and Deadman rattles his own cuffs, cursing softly under his breath. “What the hell was all that? My cuffs have died.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>No idea – and mine, too,” he replies distractedly. “Hopefully nothing major – if Heartman’s AED didn’t restart his heart when it was meant to, he could be stuck on the Beach and in need of help. Hopefully it’s just another Chiralium spike, blacking out the Network – hopefully it’ll be back up in a minute.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Or...” Wickerman starts slowly, still gazing out across the ocean. “Or he could have been trying to warn us.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Warn us?” Deadman asks. “About what?”</span></p>
<p class="western">I catch sight of it the second that the Director points, out across the flat open space between the ICU station and the Distribution Centre, some several hundred meters away. The air seems to shimmer, as if an invisible flame is flickering and dancing in a breeze.</p>
<p class="western">And then, several dozen figures appear.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>Appear</em>
  </span>
  <span>. Out of thin air. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">They seem to hover for a moment, an inch or two off the ground, before dropping and landing. All dressed in dark military clothing and armour, long hoods and capes draped across their shoulders. And all of them wielding rifles and sub machine guns.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Holy shit,” Wickerman breathes, and the instant the </span><span>troops</span><span> land, they’re immediately moving in packs of ten or more – a group of them heads in a beeline for the Distribution Centre, racing down the ramp. Even from here, the sound of the alert siren </span><span>rings</span><span> from the Centre’s core. Beyond the Distro Centre, the security force-field </span><span>is</span><span> vibrating an angry red – whoever these people are, they are most </span><span><em>definitely</em></span><span> not mean</span><span>t</span><span> to be in here.</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Deadman puts his hand on my shoulder, as if to say something, but there’s a sharp</span>
  <span>
    <em> pop</em>
  </span>
  <span> that snaps through the air right outside the floor-to-ceiling window </span>
  <span>before us</span>
  <span>, and another several dozen figures flash into existence just outside. One of them, in the lead, raising a large rifle. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">They open fire on the windows, and glass hails down over us like rain.</p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">-:-</p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">I must have blacked out, because the next thing I’m aware of is that we’re moving, and there’s a heavy weight leaning on my shoulder. I’m pinned to the rattling side of a covered top cargo truck, but when I try to shift, there’s a voice in my ear.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Shh, Elle,” it’s Deadman. I peek out of the corner of my eye to see that he is, in fact, the weight leaning on me. “Don’t let them know you’re awake.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Everything is dark around us, only shards of sunlight falling through the gaps in the canvas roof over our heads as we’re carted along. </span>
  <span>I open my eyes</span>
  <span> just a little. </span>
  <span>My</span>
  <span> hands are bound in front of me, cuffed together with my own cufflinks. Instead of their normal blue glow, they’re dark – disconnected and offline.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>What’s happening?” I breathe, and Deadman breathes heavily next to me.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I don’t know. A terrorist attack, for certain, but the details are cloudy,” he murmurs. “How they got passed the security fields fencing in the city I don’t know. But </span><span>we’re not in East Knot anymore, that’s for sure</span><span>.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Something clenches inside my chest. As my vision adjusts, I peek across the cargo bed from me – there’s an ICU nurse, also shackled with her own cuffs. Next to her is Rihana, out cold, but I can see the faint rise and fall of her chest, so at least she’s still alive. There’s at least five others also crammed in here with us, and even though I don’t recognize their faces, they’re all BRIDGES and ICU staff. There’s one of the gunmen standing at the head of the cargo bed, braced against the back of the cabin with his weapon resting against one hip.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Where are we going?” I keep my voice in a low whisper.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Not certain,” Deadman mumbles. “But I have an uneasy feeling we’re headed for Capital Knot. If my guess is right, we’ll be used as a bargaining chip for something these separatists want from the government.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>They took all of us?” I ask. “But there’s over a hundred BRIDGES staff in East Knot – and if they attacked the ICU as well, how would they move all of us?”</span></p>
<p class="western">I’m not sure if it’s the jostling of the truck as it rumbles along or if Deadman actually shook his head a little, but his expression is grave.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I doubt they left everyone alive. Which means there’s a terrible possibility that East Knot is going to be a crater very soon,” he replies softly. I think of everyone who could have possibly been left behind. Names escape me – the only ones that come to mind are Wickerman and Corey the Porter. As the Director of BRIDGES, Wickerman is almost certainly a hostage somewhere as well, but Corey...I feel my heart sinking at the thought. </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>How did they even get here?” I try to push the idea of Corey and his BB, completely undeserving of this, from my mind. “They just...</span><span><em>appeared</em></span><span>.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>The way they appeared out of thin air like that – it’s very similar to how our friend over at Fragile Express can move across great expanses in the blink of an eye. She </span><span><em>jump</em></span><span><em>s</em></span><span> to her Beach and then out to a location where she’s got a strong connection to something there. </span><span>B</span><span>ut for someone to move so </span><span><em>many</em></span><span> people across a beach all at once would take incredible power...something Fragile doesn’t have so much of anymore,” Deadman muses quietly, and even though he’s battling to keep his voice steady, the note of concern in it is almost tangible. “Someone with that kind of ability musts have an insanely high DOOMS level.”</span></p>
<p class="western">We go over a pot-hole in the road, cracking our heads together in the bounce, and I suppress a cry of pain, tears springing to my eyes.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Ow, </span><span><em>shit</em></span><span> – so we’re fucked,” I hiss, and Deadman lets out a shaky breath.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I have a good idea who’s behind this,” he replies. “We’ve been doing what we can to keep an eye on these separatists and their movements, and recently there’s been a name starting to surface amongst them in the last </span><span>few</span><span> years. A ‘Pandora’; they’re most likely the ones that have been making </span><span>attacks</span><span> on traveling Porters, killing them and leaving their bodies strung up like puppets outside city gates. </span><span>Either that, or the Gardnos are to blame.</span><span>”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Now there’s something I </span>
  <span>
    <em>do</em>
  </span>
  <span> remember seeing a lot of in my terminal’s news feed – once again, only something I actually noticed because Corey had been talking about it one time he’d come through East Knot. Several Porter’s he’d been associated with had been found murdered and staked to poles right outside cities in the Central Region. Teams had only just been able to get them far enough away from the cities to burn the bodies before they necrotized, but it had sent a </span>
  <span>shock wave of concern</span>
  <span> through BRIDGES for months.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Great,” I mutter. “If that’s the case, do you really think we’re being taken as bargaining chips? And that they won’t just kill us and make us into necrotizing scarecrows?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>It’s…it’s a possibility,” Deadman swallows, just as the road seems to level out and the engines gun. We’re building up speed now, and there’s shouts from overhead – I wonder if there’s other trucks around us, moving in convoy. “I think we’re here.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Sure enough, we come to a skating stop and the shouting amongst the gunmen grows – the canvas top is hauled off and sunlight hits my eyes. Tears well up again but I barely have time to realize it; t</span>
  <span>here are</span>
  <span> hands grabbing at my arm, yanking me out and dumping me to the concrete.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I blink</span>
  <span> away the tears and sudden vertigo </span>
  <span>trying to look</span>
  <span> around as we’re all unloaded at gunpoint. For a second, everything looks the same as East Knot – only bigger, with the ocean on the opposite side than it is back at East Knot. A towering walled off city rises far beyond the barely-standing ruins of areas no longer occupied, and closer to us is another Distribution Centre, solemn and dark against the sky. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Ah yes,” Deadman sighs, sounding disheartened. “Capital Knot City.”</span></p>
<p class="western">There are three of the trucks that brought us here in total, all of them unloading more and more hostages – altogether there’s maybe twenty-five BRIDGES staff and ICU members, along with several Porters. I spot Corey, and he gives me a small nod. One of his eyes is black and swollen shut, blood on his grey jumpsuit.</p>
<p class="western">We’re hustled into a big group, and moved across the open area towards another truck, where I spot several more of the terrorists holding someone at gunpoint. A tall black man in a roughed up suit, his hair in a close-clipped crew cut. There’s a woman circling him, dressed in the same dark armour and garb as the separatists, but a mask hides the lower half of her face, and her hair is sits upright in a shock of bleached blonde, the sides of her head shaven away to give her the impression of a mohawk. She’s saying something in the man’s ear, low and quietly.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Oh no,” Deadman breathes softly next to me as we’re shuffled along. “The President.”</span></p>
<p class="western">It takes me a second, but I realize with a jolt that I’m looking at the current President of the United Cities of America. President Die-Hardman.</p>
<p class="western">I stare open mouthed at him. Here’s a man that’s been revered the entire continent over, said to have been the fearless leader of the people who worked to prevent the Aversion, previous BRIDGES Director before Rihana. The thought of her has me looking around, and I catch sight of her, being propped up and held by an ICU staff member. She’s no longer on life-support…</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Elle,” Deadman is in my ear again. “Elle I have an awful feeling about this.” </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yeah no shit,” I reply. “What do we do?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Look there – ” he nudges me and nods carefully towards the assembled trucks nearby. “We need to get the word out, get help. I’ll cause a distraction, maybe buy you some time. If you can slip out and under the cover of those trucks, you can make a break for the city gates.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>What? That’s suicide,” I hiss, my heart thudding. “I’ve never been out there before – where would I go? I’ll be caught for sure.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Deadman looks pained, but as we’re all forced to our knees on the pavement, he lets out a deep breath.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>We have to try,” he says. “If you can make it as far as the forest skirting the mountains, you’ll be all right. You can sense Timefall hours before it happens, you can see BT’s because of your DOOMS. You’re in much better shape than I am. A Porter will be chased because Porters brave the wilderness all the time. You’re dressed as a civilian – if anything, I’m banking on them letting you go because they don’t believe you’ll survive.”</span></p>
<p class="western">I can’t help but stare open mouthed at him.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>You’re absolutely insane. They’ll kill me before I get out the gates.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Listen to me Elle,” Deadman shuffles a little closer. His glasses have a large long crack in them, most likely from when we were attacked at the ICU. “I know you’re scared. But you </span><span><em>have </em></span><span>been out there before. I know it. You came from somewhere beyond the walls of a city and it’s </span><span><em>somewhere out </em></span><span>there that you belong – if anyone’s going to survive out there, I’d put money on the little girl we rescued from a crater.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Because you think I’m a repatriate?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>That’s part of it. You think I want to send you out there? What other choices do we have? The Chiral Network has been compromised and we need help. If you head west to Port Knot City, go to the Fragile Express Head Office, find Fragile – she will help you.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Why her?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Deadman gives me a small smile. “Remember all those Likes that Heartman docked? It was a message. ‘</span>
  <span>
    <em>Warn Fragile’ </em>
  </span>
  <span>was the end of it. As an affiliation of BRIDGES, she’s most likely to be targeted as well.”</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I swallow thickly. The woman interrogating President Die-Hardman at gunpoint has yet to acknowledge our arrival or to address us. I wonder briefly if she’s the one Deadman mentioned – </span>
  <span>
    <em>Pandora</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">No time to find out and exchange pleasantries, I guess.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Okay,” I try to keep my breath steady. “Let’s do this. Will you be all right?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>C</span><span>ontrary to my name, </span><span>d</span><span>ying scares the shit out of me,” Deadman offers me a nervous smile. “But, once more, what choice do we have?”</span></p>
<p class="western">My legs ache in protest from all the kneeling, and I wait for Deadman’s cue. Just as I’m wondering what he’ll do, he pitches over sideways, gurgling and howling in pain.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Urrgh – </span><span>argh</span><span>! </span><span><em>Help!</em></span><span>” he spits phlegm and thrashes, cuffed hands cradled to his chest, and several of the BRIDGES hostages cry out and move to help him, only to have several of the gunmen shove them out of the way. For a moment he’s so convincing that I’m scared he’s actually having a heart attack.</span></p>
<p class="western">I backpedal quickly through the group as attention zones in on Deadman, and more of the separatists are starting to come over, giving me the chance to roll under the belly of one of the trucks. So far, no one’s yelling at me to come back. No one’s shooting.</p>
<p class="western">Coming up on my knees, I scramble up and keep my head ducked low as I dodge around the back of another truck. Thankfully, there’s enough of a commotion now going on behind me that I’m almost confident that I won’t be spotted. With the force-field down, the gates won’t make any noise when I pass through them. I hope.</p>
<p class="western">My whole body is trembling – I can’t run fast with my hands cuffed in front of me, and before I know it I feel that horrible icy dread starting to creep up my spine. It’s the same fear that had me frozen in the spotlights of that BT’s gaze. If I don’t move now, and quickly, I won’t move at all.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I launch from my hiding spot and </span>
  <span>run as fast as I can.</span>
  <span> I hear the first yells of alarm behind me, calling that a hostage has escaped. I don’t dare turn – I’m almost there. Suddenly gunfire chatters around me, and the concrete around my feet spit</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> up angry hot chips that stab at my legs and burn as they fly past. A second later, a blinding flash of white hot pain spits passed my shoulder, </span>
  <span>spinning</span>
  <span> me and send</span>
  <span>ing</span>
  <span> me tumbling. I </span>
  <span>practically</span>
  <span> fall right through the other side of the entryway gates. I come up on my knees, </span>
  <span>howls of pain ripping through me as </span>
  <span>blood spew</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> from my shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">Through the tears of pain, I see the white-haired woman standing on the hood of one of the trucks – her gun still aimed right at me. It had to have been her that hit me. Above the sound of my own choking sobs I can hear her yelling something to her men, to bring me back alive.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Even though all I want to do is collapse on the spot and straight up die, I force myself back to my feet and run. I’ve never felt so exposed in my life, all it would take is another bullet and I’d be down – but then my feet are hitting pebbles instead of concrete, grass rises up around my ankles and something </span>
  <span>lifts</span>
  <span> deep in my heart. The </span>
  <span>sound of the troops footfall races up</span>
  <span> behind me quickly, and adrenaline drives me forwards more than anything. Timefall-worn rocks get chipped with bullets as they fire around me, and even though I have no idea where I’m going, I’m out.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I’m </span>
  <span>
    <em>free</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I can still hear their yells from behind me as I come to a running stream, plunging into it without thought. The water soaks straight through my shoes and pants, but I ignore the biting cold in favour of reaching the other side. Up the small bank and back into the grass, it’s almost waist high and now I’m </span>
  <span>
    <em>really</em>
  </span>
  <span> wading. Spotting a rocky outcropping, I realize that even in this open plain, there’s still the possibility of hiding – hopefully. Ducking low into the grass, I beeline for the rocks and pause behind them for a gasping breath. Yells go up somewhere in my wake, and I stay low as I move through the grass towards the closest cluster of boulders.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">Okay. I suck in a deep breath, willing the pounding in my ears to quieten in case they hear it. I can hear them moving quieter now, searching now that I’ve broken their line of sight. Okay. I can do this.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>I grit</span>
  <span> my teeth against the searing pain in my shoulder </span>
  <span>and</span>
  <span> glance down to see that I’ve only been clipped with some shot. It’s not a true bullet hole but it </span>
  <span>burns</span>
  <span> like the ‘growing pains’ as Deadman used to call them when I’d been kept in quarantine. It feels like forever, waiting with baited breath and moving as quietly as I dare. Every time the deep grass rustles around me my heart jumps, and I slowly, slowly creep my way towards the tree line. The closer the get the more I’m certain at any moment I’ll be discovered. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>It takes me what must have been at least an hour, stumbling and crawling my way into the hills as trees begin to sprout up around me. Pressing to the trunks and praying they pass me by every time I hear their voices come closer. </span>
  <span>E</span>
  <span>ventually I come to what looks like a worn path, winding up alongside a river that cascades down the mountain. Just beyond </span>
  <span>the mountains</span>
  <span> peak, </span>
  <span>shining</span>
  <span> in the late afternoon sun, </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> what looks like a tall metal spire. I follow the track up, my feet feeling like lead with every step. </span>
  <span>In the distance, there’s occasional yells echoing across the mountainside; they’re</span>
  <span> still out there. I bitterly recall Deadman’s hope that I’d be let go. So much for that.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">Cresting the hill with the mountain crag rising off to one side, the rest of the structure at the base of the spire comes into view; desolate with wind whistling quietly through its smashed-out windows.</p>
<p class="western">The East Region Incinerator, awash with streaks of glowing orange and yellows as the sun begins to set behind it.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>Oh</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>My feet carry me closer without me really feeling the steps, and before I know it I’m standing </span>
  <span>at</span>
  <span> the entrance to the Incinerator. The temperature plummets to a sharp chill. I can just picture it – when Timefall comes, the Chiralium density rises and brings with it BT’s swarming the area. There’s a hollow feeling settling in my chest, almost completely numbing the pain in my arm. The whole place reeks of death, a solemn atmosphere tinged with dread.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">This is where they bring the dead. Rihana was going to end up here. The last President before Die-Hardman ended up here. A strange, intangible feeling washes over me and I can’t seem to stop staring at the incinerator slabs, laid out like rectangular graves in the floor.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>I don’t like it here</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>A yell from behind snaps me out of my reverie, and I turn. There they are, waving their weapons and hollering as they run right towards me. One of them fires before I can even turn, and I feel </span>
  <span>the shot</span>
  <span> rip through my already injured shoulder, sending me tumbling to the cold dusty floor with a yell. But I can’t shake that horrible numbness that’s wrapping its freezing hands around me to do more than cry and writhe in pain. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">My ears pop with a sudden shift in the air pressure around me, and there’s a snap in the air. Someone steps over me, brandishing something out between us and the troops like a shield, as the gunmen open fire again. A solid black leather boot stands between me and the oncoming assault, turning smartly on its heel and now they’re kneeling over me, their shield deflecting the bullets. I feel hands grabbing at me and hauling me up.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Hold onto me,” they say, and the air around us shifts and warps again. I cling with my cuffed hands to their jacket as bullets ricochet around us off the pavement, and in a second we’re somewhere even colder than the Incinerator floor. I keep my eyes screwed shut, but I hear waves crashing on a shoreline, the tang of sea salt </span><span>in my nose</span><span> – </span></p>
<p class="western">Then it’s gone. There’s more voices around us now, but they’re concerned, calling for help. My rescuer, whoever they are, is cradling me and calling out.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Get a medic! I’ve got a live one!” it’s a woman, but my eyes are so full of tears, welling up from the chiral allergy of the Beach, that I can’t make out her features. “Hurry! She’s been shot!”</span></p>
<p class="western">Shot. Yeah, that’s right. My head’s spinning as she speaks again, lower and closer now, and a hand touches my face.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Hey, hey hold on,” she’s saying. “Stay with me kid, you’re going to be all right. Eyes open, look at me – ”</span></p>
<p class="western">Someone runs over with a gurney, it takes her and another person to heave my dead weight onto it. I can’t tell where we are, but as I’m wheeled along a corridor into a large white-washed medical chamber, I’m faintly aware of the woman pressing a fistful of gauze to my shoulder. She’s speaking quickly with a medic, who’s readying a semi-cuff with a needle attached.</p>
<p class="western">Then she looks down at me and smiles gently. Tears are running down her own cheeks, and her face is smeared with what can only be my own blood.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Lights out for a while,” she says, but her voice is muffled like my ears are stuffed with cotton wool. “I’ll be here when you wake.”</span></p>
<p class="western">The medic slaps the cuff onto my arm above my shackled wrists, and seconds later I’m out.</p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">-:-</p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">
  <span>The room I wake up in </span>
  <span>is</span>
  <span> dark, and I’m immediately aware of the pain radiating dully from my shoulder. I reach up to touch it, and realize that my hands are no longer cuffed together. </span>
  <span>T</span>
  <span>here’s hard, red rub marks around both wrists, but the cuffs that caused them are gone.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Evening sleepy-head,” the woman’s voice catches me off guard, and I look over to see her sitting with one leg crossed under the other in a chair beside the bunk. “You’ve certainly had quite a day. Was wondering when you’d be coming back to us.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Deadman...” his face is clear in my head, and I recall the urgency of my escape. “Oh, shit – ”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Easy, don’t hurt yourself,” she gets up and stops me as I try to sit up. “That bullet wound is already healing fast, but you don’t want to reopen it. You’re all right, you’re safe here.”</span></p>
<p class="western">She helps me sit up, her gloved hands steady on my shaking ones.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Where’s here?” the words feel clumsy in my mouth, my head still foggy. “I have to get...get to Port Knot...”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Well then you’re in luck,” she replies. “Because that’s exactly where you are. Care to tell me what the hell a civilian was doing getting chased by a terrorist posse into an Incinerator?”</span></p>
<p class="western">The panic rising in my chest seems to pause, but there’s still blood pounding in my ears. I force a deep breath before answering.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I’m not a civilian – I work for BRIDGES. Chiralium storage and dispensary. My name’s Elle,” the words feel thick in my mouth. “I live and work in East Knot...we were ambushed, somehow...how long was I out?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Just a few hours, had to dose you with anesthesia so fix up your shoulder,” she replies, and I finally take a long, good look at my saviour. She’s probably only in her </span><span>mid to</span> <span>late</span><span> thirties, if that, with soft blonde hair tied back in a loose braid draped over her shoulder. </span></p>
<p class="western">Something feels like it clicks in my head.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Are you Fragile?” I ask tentatively, and she smiles again.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I am. Your valiant escape attempt was brave, but foolish – I hope you know that,” she chides. “We’re lucky I got to you in time.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Yeah...uh, thank you,” I say awkwardly. “You really did save my life. Deadman wanted me to find you, give you a warning.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Fragile nods seriously as she stands.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I figured BRIDGES would try to send word, or beg for help. One of the two,” she says. “We’ve had to pull all of our Fragile Express operatives from the field and from BRIDGES </span><span>sites</span><span> in a hurry – an attempt at self-preservation, really.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Please, we’ve got to go back – ” I ignore the burning pain running through my body and force myself to my feet. “Deadman, the others, we have to rescue them.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Fragile raises an eyebrow.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I’ve only met a few people so damn keen to go rushing back into harm’s way,” she says slowly. “And whilst I do understand your intentions are good, there’s nothing we can do right now.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>What? Why not? You rescued me...”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>I rescued you because you’re one person. One. You have no idea how much using this ability of mine to jump costs me,” Fragile snaps at me, her eyes serious. “There’s no way I can jump that many people, especially from the middle of a hostage situation. You need to slow down. We’ve got eyes on the situation in Capital Knot, and the last thing we need is for anyone to do anything rash.”</span></p>
<p class="western">She moves over a terminal close by and brings up a chiralgram screen.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Wait, how do you have access to the Network?” I ask, remembering how my cufflinks had gone dark. “I thought the Chiral Network was down?”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Not down, as such,” Fragile gives me a sly smile. “Just hi-jacked. Luckily, there’s people out there who are ready for this kind of thing, so there’s already a spare few of us hooked up to a piggy-backed system that gives us some access to the Chiral Network without those in control of it knowing. </span><span>All based off the system we had in place before BRIDGES’ second expedition ten years ago.</span><span>”</span></p>
<p class="western">She flicks her wrist, and the chiralgram fades in to show a security camera’s live feed of a shot over the Distribution Centre’s exterior in Capital Knot City. The suns gone down, leaving only the bright spotlights to shed light, but under them, the whole group of hostages is still held at gunpoint on the Distro Centre’s observation deck. I spot Deadman in the crowd, his face looking black and blue and his arm held crookedly.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Oh, Deadman...” </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>At least he’s still alive.” Fragile notes as I move to observe the chiralgram next to her. “So long as no one else </span><span>does anything stupid</span><span>, no one else gets hurt. See that woman?”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>She points to the woman who shot me at the gates, stalking back and forth across the front of the group. There’s no audio, but it’s clear she’s giving some kind of speech. At the head of the group, she’s got the President of the UCA on his knees. Behind him, Deadman is sitting gathered with a dark-haired woman and Heartman – I had no idea he was even </span>
  <span>
    <em>in</em>
  </span>
  <span> Capital Knot. They’re huddled together, their faces grave as the terrorist leader speaks. </span>
</p>
<p class="western">“<span>That’s Pandora, leader of the Homo Libertas.” </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Homo Libertas?” I repeat. </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>She’s been gaining a following for years now, more and more separatists joining her ranks,” Fragile’s voice is bitter. “Looks like she’s finally made a big move to overthrow the UCA. Never thought it would actually happen after everything we’ve been doing in the last ten years to rebuild.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Is there nothing we can do?” I feel so helpless watching the terrorist leader march back and forth. </span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Not until she makes her demands known. And to do that, she’ll have to announce them to the whole Network and everyone connected,” Fragile replies. Right as she says that, suddenly the chiralgram’s audio picks up and the sound comes clearly through the room’s speaker system. “Uh oh. Here it comes.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Pandora’s voice echoes around us, and she turns and stares directly at the security camera.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>I’m disappointed in you, BRIDGES. I host the biggest reunion since the Aversion and America’s greatest hero isn’t even here to celebrate?” There’s an almost sing-song lilt to her words. “Looks like I’ll just have to drag him back here myself, if that’s what it takes.”</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>Is she talking about…?” I glance at Fragile, who’s chewing at her lip.</span></p>
<p class="western">“<span>So </span><span>it’s down to you</span><span>, Sam Porter Bridges. Come on back to Capital Knot and I’ll have all these </span><span>people</span><span> released.” Pandora continues, making a grand sweeping gesture to the hostages. “</span><span>I’ll even wait for you, give you </span><span>a head start</span><span> to hike your sorry ass back here. </span><span>But first, a little incentive. After all, we now have a captive audience of the entire UCA on the Chiral Network at our disposal, we’ll just have to prove to our old friend Sammy that it’s worth his while coming back.”</span></p>
<p class="western">Gesturing at a couple of her men, Pandora has Die-Hardman shuffled to the front of the group. The dark-haired woman between Deadman and Heartman tries to lunge forwards, but Heartman catches her and holds her back. There’s tears running down their faces – mine too, I realize with a jolt, and for a moment I can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline or a chiral allergy. Next to me, Fragile is deathly still.</p>
<p class="western">Die-Hardman kneels before Pandora.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>How long has it been old man,” Pandora asks slowly, “since you last stared death in the face?”</span></p>
<p class="western">The President says nothing to her, only looks back over his shoulder at his people, all huddled together.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Stay</span><span> stranded together</span><span>,” he says, his low voice only just picked up by the </span><span>security cameras audio. “Do not let the UCA fall with me.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <span>B</span>
  <span>efore I can blink, Pandora pulls a handgun from her waistband and fires a single shot.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">Die-Hardman dies before he hits the concrete, and after a second of stunned silence, all of the gathered hostages scream. Men and women, staff and Porters. Heartman has tears streaming down his horrified face, the woman in his arms howling in dismay. I’m yelling, too – I don’t know what else to do. Fragile has her hands clapped over her mouth in shock, and there’s an overwhelming dread building in my chest, making it hard to breath, impossible to think.</p>
<p class="western">The security feed crackles with a boom of thunder, and suddenly rain comes pouring down. Amidst the terrified chaos, the hostages are ushered back underneath the overhang of the Distro Centre, and Pandora casually kicks at the President’s body, until it’s left out in the rain. The Timefall hits, and before our very eyes Die-Hardman’s body decays, until he’s nothing more than exposed bones and shriveled, aged flesh.</p>
<p class="western">“<span>Are you listening now, Sam Porter Bridges?” Pandora yells at us over the roar of the rain. “You will kneel to me, you </span><span><em>will</em></span><span> see my way. God has abandoned you like God abandoned me. The UCA will be no more.”</span></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm compiling a handful of character sketches for all the characters i'm designing for this story...once i've got a few more done, i'll post a link~</p>
<p>thank you for reading! and thanks go to my guy Mat for beta reading for me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Messenger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle stands against impossible odds in the shadow of America's Greatest Deliverer, much to her chagrin.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Even an hour later, we’re still sitting in shock. Fragile had yet to say anything, really; she had just lead me up out of the ward and to a canteen area. I waited at a table until she had returned with two cups of steaming hot tea, and we had just sat in silence ever since.</p><p class="western">The weight of Pandora’s words still hangs in the air between us, the sight of Die-Hardman’s death still vivid behind my lids every time I blink. There’s yelling and confusion elsewhere in this facility, occasionally someone will run past. Everyone on the Network just witnessed the same thing; and chaos has ensued. Moments after her demands, Pandora had ordered the Network to go dark again, and we’d been left with nothing. No visual on the situation in Capital Knot. No idea what was happening.</p><p class="western">Finally, I can’t sit still any longer and begin to fidget. Fragile drains the last of her cup as I feel the words itching to be said.</p><p class="western">“What do we do?”</p><p class="western">She doesn’t meet my eyes straight away, but her gloved hands tighten around her cup ever so slightly.</p><p class="western">“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “America’s fucked.”</p><p class="western">“Pandora; why would she want Sam Porter Bridges to return?” I ask quietly. “So badly that she’s prepared to kill for it?”</p><p class="western">Fragile takes a long, slow breath in. She’s fiddling with a bracelet around her wrist, a small silver plate tied with a plain blue and red cord. A small golden jewel dangles from it, catching the weak light of the overhead power strips on the ceiling.</p><p class="western">“Fragile?”</p><p class="western">She seems to wake from her reverie, and finally she looks at me.</p><p class="western">“Amelie Strand,” her voice is bitter. “Pandora must want to get to Amelie.”</p><p class="western">“Who?”</p><p class="western">“She was an Extinction Entity,” Fragile says. “An all-powerful being destined to bring around the end of life on earth as we know it; Sam changed her mind. He convinced her to hold off the Last Stranding. He was the only one she ever cared about, so he’d be the key to getting to her.”</p><p class="western">Something inside of me wanted to roll my eyes – was there <em>anything</em> the great Sam Porter Bridges hasn’t accomplished? Just single-handedly rebuild America and casually save the whole damn world from an omnipotent deity of annihilation whilst he’s at it. No biggie, apparently.</p><p class="western">“But...Sam disappeared, right? After the Aversion? If no one knows where he is, then he’d be wiser to just stay out of this whole mess,” I say, and Fragile nods. “But then what will Pandora do if he doesn’t come?”</p><p class="western">“No doubt she’s already mobilised her people to search for him,” she replies, getting up from the cafeteria table. “She doesn’t strike me as a woman who’ll sit around now that she’s staked her claim.”</p><p class="western">My mind goes back to East Knot, and what Deadman had said in the truck. <em>T</em> <em>here’s a terrible possibility that East Knot is going to be a crater very soon. </em>Numbly, I follow her up to the counter where we leave our cups in the sink, and Fragile beckons me to follow her back into the hallway.</p><p class="western">“Sam chose to leave behind everything ten years ago,” Fragile’s words cut through my thoughts. “As far as I’m personally aware, he’s had no connection or ties to anyone in that time since. He was...broken. Beyond repair.”</p><p class="western">There’s something in her words that strikes a chord somewhere inside me, and for some reason I’m suddenly thinking about the Incinerator again.</p><p class="western">We head into what appears to be some sort of large office and communications room, with people at Chiralgraphic terminals and others milling around. Every screen flickers with basic information and topographical maps of different areas of the continent. I vaguely recognize the area around East Knot, just south of the Central Knot City crater.</p><p class="western">Fragile raises her voice to be heard above the chatter of the personnel.</p><p class="western">“Someone get me eyes on Capital Knot,” she barks, and two people give her a thumbs up before going back to their screens. “And someone get Echo back on the lines”</p><p class="western">I watch as she directs and moves her people, like a conductor of an orchestra. It’s a little awe-inspiring, having heard a few of Deadman’s tales of her work in preventing the Aversion, how she then went on to head up the delivery company her father had left to her. I wonder, briefly, what she was like ten years ago, but my thoughts are derailed as a voice comes crackling overhead.</p><p class="western">“Echo here – sorry I dropped out. I’m swamped getting the piggy-back lines going again; whatever that woman did to the Chiral Network caused a massive influx of data that’s flooded everything. We’ve been in the dark for the last hour, but I’ll have eyes open again shortly.”</p><p class="western">Fragile lets out a sigh, and I follow her gaze to the ceiling where the voice emanates from a speaker..</p><p class="western">“Good work, consider this over-time and once we can get our bearings again we’ll finalise your contract. You’re doing great,” she says, and there’s a shaky laugh in return. “I’m serious, Echo, you’re doing fine.”</p><p class="western">“Thanks,” comes the reply. “I see your messenger from Capital Knot is awake.”</p><p class="western">I feel eyes on me, and I glance to Fragile, who gives me a small smile.</p><p class="western">“You’ve got Echo to thank for your rescue,” she says. “They’re the one who saw you make the break for the gates, got a pin-point on your cuffs so I could jump straight to you. It was a lot easier than I thought it would be, honestly.”</p><p class="western">“Oh,” I feel a hot flush of self-consciousness heating my cheeks. “Um, thanks.”</p><p class="western">“A pleasure,” Echo’s voice responds. “I didn’t think I could’ve have given Fragile such an accurate marker, but somehow we did.”</p><p class="western">The name of America’s Greatest Deliverer pops into my head, and I sigh.</p><p class="western">“Yeah, I know how.”</p><p class="western">“How?” Fragile raises an eyebrow at me.</p><p class="western">“You knew Sam Porter Bridges well, didn’t you? Deadman said you guys worked pretty closely together,” I say, and she nods curiously. I tap a finger to the wrist of my injured arm, where only days ago Deadman had slapped a semi-cuff to it. “I had a transfusion of a synthesized version of his blood a little while ago. If you guys were close, it probably helped create a stronger link.”</p><p class="western">Her eyes widen, but it’s Echo who speaks first.</p><p class="western">“That’d definitely do it,” they say. “<em>Oof – </em>ooh, crap. Okay. I have to bounce, sorry. With the Chiral Network in such flux, shit’s coming in hard from the Beach and there’s BT’s everywhere, I can feel them...I need some air.”</p><p class="western">As their voice fades, I blink.</p><p class="western">“Wait, will they be okay? With BT’s around?” I ask, and Fragile nods.</p><p class="western">“Echo will be fine,” she says, giving me a long measured look. “Why did you need a transfusion?”</p><p class="western">I shrug, but there’s really no way of brushing this off.</p><p class="western">“Deadman seems to think I might be a repatriate. I had a chiral contamination as a kid which made my cells start aging super-fast, like I’d been bathed in Timefall,” I say quietly, and Fragile bristles. “He managed to get the worst of it under control but I’m still meant to be on medication for it.”</p><p class="western">“When did this happen to you?” her voice is tense.</p><p class="western">“Three years ago, almost,” I reply. “I was about seven when they found me.”</p><p class="western">A strange expression passes over Fragile’s face, like relief mixed with pity, but then her gazes fixes on my face and she raises an eyebrow.</p><p class="western">“You said you’re meant to have been on medication?” she reaches forward and wipes something from my lip – her gloved hand comes away slick with blood. “When was your last dose?”</p><p class="western">“Oh, fuck,” I mumble, wiping at my bleeding nose. “I’ve never missed a dose before...it must’ve been two days ago? Nearly three?”</p><p class="western">Fragile’s eyes widen a bit, but she puts a hand on my shoulder and I stop floundering.</p><p class="western">“Calm down. Where would your medications be?” she asks. “Clearly you’re going to need some as soon as possible.”</p><p class="western">“My...my apartment room. In East Knot City.”</p><p class="western">She turns back to the staff milling around, calls for someone to get eyes on East Knot, but my minds already buzzing with anxiety. Screens begin to light up with angles of security camera feeds of the outer city limits where the Distro Centre and the ICU meet. The bodies of BRIDGES members and security guards are strewn across the ground, and the force-fields are humming with an angry red glow. My brain is an awful jumble of thoughts that I don’t know how to quiet; what if I start ageing again? What if the repatriate blood wasn’t enough?</p><p class="western">“Elle,” Fragile’s voice breaks through, and she’s suddenly in front of me, both hands on my shoulders and she’s pressing her forehead to mine. “Don’t look at them, Elle. Look at me. Focus.”</p><p class="western">Her eyes are sharp, clear blue.</p><p class="western">“We’re going to jump again. I need you to visualise where we’re going. I can’t jump you straight into the City, we’ll have to land outside. Picture it in your mind, Elle. The City gates. The Distribution Centre.”</p><p class="western">I squeeze my eyes shut and try to see it in my head, but all I see is the bodies flung carelessly across the ground. BRIDGES members I never knew the names of, security guards I never paid attention to. They’re all dead. Massacred.</p><p class="western">“<em>Focus</em>, Elle,” Fragile insists, and it’s her voice that grounds me as the air around us feels like it’s starting to tremble and shift. I think of the Distribution Centre, standing tall and solitary against the grey sky, gulls circling above it. I think of the bridge by the guarded waystation, how I’d cross it twice a day going to and from work. There’s a building of pressure in my ears like I’ve been submerged in water, and then Fragile speaks again. “<em>There</em>.”</p><p class="western">There’s a snap in the air and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut with the force of it as we snap across to the other side – I hear the sounds of the ocean for a split second before we land, Chiralium specks flitting around us.</p><p class="western">“Quickly now,” she says, giving my hand a tug as I shake the disorienting feeling from my head. “I’ll wait for you here, make sure Pandora didn’t leave any of her thugs behind.”</p><p class="western">With that, she gives me a little shove towards the waystation gates as she heads in the opposite direction, towards the Distribution Centre. I break into an uneasy jog, still pressing my sleeve to my bleeding nose. It’s not the worst nosebleed I’ve ever had, but coupled with the radiating pain of the still-recovering bullet-wound in my shoulder, I feel like I’ve been sent through a decontamination tumbler.</p><p class="western">The waystation checkpoint is completely down, no force-field for me to pass through, and that’s when I realize just how silent the whole place is. At the very least, there’s always been the hum of electricity. Now, there’s just...nothing. I make my way at a run towards the City’s walls, where the maintenance access door I’d made a habit of passing through stands shut.</p><p class="western">It creaks in protest as I push it open, careful to close it behind me, and all of a sudden I’m flooded with a strange feeling. I’m back in the City – I’m<em> safe</em>. I could just go home, back to my apartment, and forget about this nightmare if I really wanted to. So long as no one goes outside the city walls and comes into contact with any of the BT’s sure to come from the dead, this city would remain entirely safe. Without power, but safe.</p><p class="western">I push myself back into a jog, and think of Deadman. I can’t leave him there. Or Rihana, or Heartman and Corey. I <em>have</em> to go back.</p><p class="western">As I make my way into the city proper, I start coming across more and more people. More people, in fact, than I think I’ve ever seen out in the streets...ever. They’re calling out and crying for something to be done. For help. The power has been shut off – even the back-up generators are draining fast – and the Network is down. The President is dead. Terrorists are going to kill us all. I try to stay away from as many of them as I can as I head for my apartment, taking the stairs two at a time once I reach the foot of the building. No one stops me, no one questions me. Thank God, everyone’s far too busy being terrified.</p><p class="western">I shoulder my way into my apartment room using the failsafe override to get in manually, and for a moment I do nothing more but stand in the doorway. The apartment is exactly the way I left it nearly three days ago; mostly tidy, looking very sparsely lived in. Shaking myself, I go straight for the tiny bathroom and scoop up the bottle of pills Deadman had prescribed to me, downing one and remembering to take a gulp of water with it from the tap as an afterthought. I grab a duffel bag from the top of the cabinet and stuff the meds in, along with the very few personal belongings I keep in the bathroom; a spare shirt and jumpsuit from the drawer under the sink, a hairbrush, several pairs of socks and a photograph Deadman had printed for me. It shows the two of us, him looking ecstatic and me looking exhausted, in his lab with him giving the camera a victorious thumbs up. On the back, he had scrawled the note “finally out and headed into the world”.</p><p class="western">I pause, staring at the photo in my hands. It was taken the day I was finally able to come out of the quarantine ward, when Deadman had sufficiently decreased the contamination levels in my cells to the point I would no longer have such intense reactions. I was given a clean bill of health, for a completely whack science experiment. His words from before, when he was urging me to make a run for it, come back to me.</p><p class="western">“<em>You came from somewhere beyond the walls of a city and it’s somewhere out there that you belong.”</em></p><p class="western">Tears spring to my eyes unexpectedly, and I wipe them away before running the tap to splash my face with cold water – finally, my nosebleed seems to have calmed down, and I give my face a quick scrub before I look up and really take a look at myself in the mirror. I nearly jump a foot in the air.</p><p class="western">“What the <em>fuck</em>?!”</p><p class="western">There’s a stencil of a handprint on my face, as if someone had placed their reaching, outstretched hand over my face and had sprayed around it with charcoal. I remember the BT, reaching for me.</p><p class="western">“Oh. Great. What the hell,” I peer closer at myself, rubbing my fingers over the trace lines now marring my face. I give up after a moment of desperate scrubbing, hoping they’d smear and rub off. But the outline stubbornly refuses to disappear. I look like someone has high-fived me in the face. Why hadn’t Deadman said anything about it when we were in the ICU? I feel like this really would have been something he would have mentioned. But no one seemed to think a great big handprint slapped in the middle of my face was that much of a big deal.</p><p class="western">Realising that fretting about it really isn’t going to help me, I grab my bag and head back into the small apartment, shoving a handful of ration packs from my cupboard into the bag as well – it’s nice enough of Fragile to host me, but I have a sneaking suspicion that her hospitality won’t last forever, and I’d rather be safe than sorry. I take one last look around, not really seeing anything else I could think of needing – I don’t really have any personal items that I don’t already carry on me, like my pendant chunk. The pendant sits heavily against my chest as it dawns on me that I might not ever see this place again. It’s not really a sad realisation, just an odd one. I push the thoughts away and head out, slinging the bag up over my shoulder and making my way back into the streets.</p><p class="western">There’s still dozens of people out and about – solar-powered lanterns and torches have been hung up and placed along the streets, bathing everyone in a strange white glow. I have to slip past a large group congregated on the sidewalk, holding each others hands and murmuring softly to each other in some sort of vigil. Their prayers don’t mean much to me as I sidle past, but at least no one tries to stop me.</p><p class="western">Sliding quietly back out the access door in the looming walls that hedge the city, I’m hit by a slap of sea air that carries the heavy tang of the ocean. Night has well and truly fallen, bringing with it a sharp chill to the air, and my breath swirls away in ghostly white puffs. I quickly make my way back out across the bridge towards the waystation, but as I reach the unmanned station, something catches my eye. There’s movement out by the Distribution Centre, and for a second I think it’s just Fragile.</p><p class="western">It’s a handful of Pandora’s troops, roaming across the walkway with large rifles hanging on straps from their shoulders. They’re laughing and talking, and there’s no sign of Fragile anywhere. Did she leave without me?</p><p class="western">I press myself into the shadow of the waystation office box, peeking out to try and count their numbers. There’s only five, but they all have weapons, and I really don’t feel like being shot at again. I hug the shadows as best I can, trying to avoid the warm beams of the emergency spotlights dotted around the Distro Centre, and I make my way as quietly as possible towards the line of BRIDGES trucks. The bodies of the dead are all still laying where they fell, and Pandora’s men don’t seem too fussed in moving or disposing of them.</p><p class="western">
  <em>Where the hell did Fragile go??</em>
</p><p class="western">I hunker down behind one of the trucks, trying to get another look out at the soldiers. They’re circling the Distribution Centre, hanging around the entryway more than anything. It gives them a decent view of the entrance gates of the city and across to the waystation. If they had actually been looking my way, I would have definitely been spotted.</p><p class="western">“Psst, hey,”</p><p class="western">I nearly jump at the sound of the voice in my ear, and whirl around. There’s no one at my shoulder, no one anywhere.</p><p class="western">“Shh, it’s me,” says the voice. “Echo.”</p><p class="western">“Echo? How can I hear you?” I breathe, my heart still hammering.</p><p class="western">“Check your right ear. Fragile had a comm inserted whilst you were unconscious; don’t be mad.” Echo says quickly. “She thought it best if you went running off or had any issues we could pick up on. Like a friendly voice in your ear to keep you company.”</p><p class="western">“Can you help me? I don’t know where she’s gone and there’s guards at the mouth of the Distro Centre,” I shove away the uncomfortable feeling of invasion as I poke at my ear – sure enough, there’s a tiny bud no larger than the size of my fingernail that’s been slotted into my ear canal. If I hadn’t gone looking for it, I would have never noticed it at all. “I’m stuck here.”</p><p class="western">“Fragile’s pretty stuck too – she’s on the other side of the Distro Centre. It’s too dangerous for her to use the Beach anymore to jump, it’s an absolute shit-show right now,” Echo replies. “Lucky for you, you’re in the best spot to help both yourself <em>and</em> her.”</p><p class="western">There’s a quick <em>beep beep</em> from the truck next to me, and it unlocks.</p><p class="western">“Manual override,” Echo says as I pry open the door as quietly as I can and slip inside, clambering up into the trucks cabin. “All it needs is a positive ID from BRIDGES and it’s all yours. Thankfully it looks like you’ve still got…oohh<em> oh ffffuck</em> –”</p><p class="western">I pause as Echo draws a shuddering breath like they’ve suddenly got a cramp.</p><p class="western">“Echo?”</p><p class="western">“I’m. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Give me a sec,” there’s a few painfully long seconds of hearing them breathe heavily in my ear, as if they’re hissing through a physical pain, but slowly, it eases and Echo starts to take gulping deep breaths. “Sorry. DOOMS messes me up. I get really overwhelmed sometimes, it hurts.”</p><p class="western">“What?”</p><p class="western">“I’ll explain later,” the tone of Echo’s voice gets focused again, and we’re back in business. “As I was saying; thankfully, it looks like you’ve still got the sub-dermal ID chip implanted from when you were first inducted to BRIDGES, which is what gives you ID access to the vehicle. You...you do know how to drive right?”</p><p class="western">I’m sitting behind the wheel of the truck, suddenly aware that I do, in fact, <em>not </em> know how to drive. And <em>what </em>sub-dermal chip? Another question for Deadman...if I ever see him again.</p><p class="western">“Elle?”</p><p class="western">“I have a forklift license...” I offer meekly, recalling the necessary training for working in the depths of the BRIDGES cargo holds.</p><p class="western">“Oooookay,” Echo lets out a long and shaky breath. “Well. No time like the present to learn.”</p><p class="western">Under their instruction, I find the starter key in the ignition slot and they give me a quick run through of the basics; pedals, steering, brakes...and next thing I know I’m gunning the engine and slamming the truck into reverse. It shoots backwards and lurches awkwardly as I wrench around the steering wheel way too hard before jumping it into drive.</p><p class="western">Immediately the soldiers are yelling and raising their guns, but their bullets ping harmlessly off the exterior shell as I skid across the concrete road, weaving madly to try and avoid any of the bodies. There’s only one stomach-turning <em>crunch</em> as I accidentally swerve over someone’s leg, and I try not to think about it; Echo’s voice in my ear guides me towards a large stack of shipping containers. I’ve seen them dozens of times in my time working at the Distro Centre; sometimes there’s many, sometimes there’s only a few stacked around. Suddenly from their depths runs Fragile, her hands awkwardly pressed to her side as she ducks behind the cover of the truck as I pull up alongside the shipping crates.</p><p class="western">The windscreen cracks and chips as bullets smack it with enough for to make me flinch, but the glass holds, and I crank the steering wheel around and we’re off again, Fragile grappling for a seat belt and yelling as we go crunching over a curb and out of the city limit’s gates.</p><p class="western">Echo is hooting with joy in my ear, and I don’t dare slow the breakneck pace down the open highway until we’re easily half an hour from East Knot’s outer limits. Finally, Fragile lays a hand on my arm and I slow, pulling the truck over into the cover of a copse of trees. Echo has since gone quiet, and now it’s just me and Fragile. We’re both breathing hard, but I suddenly realize that we’re both panting for different reasons. Mostly because the hand on my arm is slick with black blood.</p><p class="western">“Oh shit, you’re injured – ” I’m reaching across the bench seat to where Fragile is slumped, her face twisted in pain. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize...”</p><p class="western">“Not your fault,” she murmurs. “I got attacked on my Beach trying to get away from those goons. Only just managed to make it back and hide. That bitch had something waiting for me. I didn’t see what it was, but it was nasty.”</p><p class="western">She slightly pulls her other hand away from her side, and I switch on the trucks harsh yellow interior light. Her gloves are slick with blood, the wound a shallow gash across her rib cage. The leather of her jacket is torn and the ripped edges are soaked. Despite how much blood there is, it doesn’t look as bad as it could have been.</p><p class="western">“I guess that’s what Heartman’s warning meant,” I mutter as I pull up my duffel bag, rummaging until I come up with the spare shirt, and we press it to the wound. Fragile takes several deep breaths. “Deadman said his message was to warn you – if he was on the Beach himself at the time maybe he saw what attacked you as well.”</p><p class="western">“A reasonable assumption. Jumping might be out of the question for a while,” Fragile winces. “You get what you need?”</p><p class="western">I nod. She smiles shallowly. “Good.”</p><p class="western">After a moment of silence as she carefully arranges the shirt into a firm wad against her side, I can’t swallow back the question anymore.</p><p class="western">“Why did you help me? At the Incinerator, I get that. But...you didn’t even question it when I realized I needed my medication. You just jumped us straight there, despite how you said it takes a toll on you,” I say slowly, and Fragile nods along mutely. “I’m not exactly anybody special, yet you immediately helped me, even though it got you hurt. Why?”</p><p class="western">She shrugs.</p><p class="western">“Wouldn’t say you’re not important,” she answers carefully, pulling a small case from her pocket and cracking it open. Two fat little cryptobiotes float out, and she plucks one from the air and pops it into her mouth. The other bobs and chitters against the ceiling of the truck. “After all. You’re a repatriate.”</p><p class="western">“Deadman <em>thinks</em> I’m a repatriate,” I say. “We don’t know for sure.”</p><p class="western">“I’ve only known one repatriate before, knew <em>of </em>him for a long time before I made his acquaintance,” Fragile chuckles softly, and already the colour is starting to return to her cheeks. “But his whole body is covered in the handprints of the dead. From where BT’s touched him...from where he repatriated.”</p><p class="western">She looks at me, and raises a finger to point at my face.</p><p class="western">“Kinda figured since you’ve got a little souvenir of your own, it just makes sense,” she says, and I reach up and self-consciously try to cover the strange stencil covering most of my left cheek.</p><p class="western">“It...I was touched by a BT a few nights ago,” I mumble. “But it was Sam Porter Bridges’ blood that saved me, because of the transfusion I’d had. This only showed up after that. I haven’t had it for very long.”</p><p class="western">Fragile raises an eyebrow and nods, before plucking the second cryptobiote from where it’s bobbing around against the trucks ceiling and offering it to me. I sheepishly wave it away, and she shrugs before eating it herself.</p><p class="western">“I doubt a once-off transfusion would be enough to make that much of a difference in the entirety of your bloodstream when it comes to a BT,” she says, before peeling her gloves off. Beneath the black, blood-soaked leather, her hands are withered and old, like the hands of an elderly woman. She fishes a spare pair from her pocket, pulling them on to replace the soiled ones. “I believe there’s something much more going on with you. Your condition, your connection to the other side...naturally, you’ll have DOOMS too, right?”</p><p class="western">I nod.</p><p class="western">“Those with DOOMS have a tendency to connect better than others,” Fragile says. “And I believe that you have a stronger connection to many than you realize. It would’ve been a mistake to let you suffer and die from a preventable condition. And this is barely a scratch; it will heal. I’ve had worse.”</p><p class="western">With that, she switches off the interior light, and I’m thankful for the darkness. Even though I can still feel her eyes on me, I can no longer see it myself, which is a small comfort.</p><p class="western">“Come on,” she says softly. “It’s a fair drive back to Port Knot. We’d best get going.”</p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western">Several hours later the trucks battery finally dies, and we’re still barely halfway back. Fragile dozes in the passenger seat, her hand still pressing the shirt to her side. It’s sometime past midnight and I manage to roll the truck off the main road just enough to get it behind a rocky outcropping. Despite how exhausted I am, the pain in my arm from my bullet wound, mixed with the anxiety of being discovered, refuses to let me settle. We’ll be stuck here until the sun comes back up, until the trucks solar battery sucks up some sunshine.</p><p class="western">We’d been traveling through the mountain range that ringed around the outskirts of the Incinerator, and even in the darkness as I climb out of the truck and haul myself up to sit on the bonnet, I can feel the Chiralium density in the atmosphere to the north. Somewhere out there is the Incinerator, and somewhere further north beyond it is Capital Knot City.</p><p class="western">I shiver in the chill of the night air contrasting the warmth of the recently dead vehicle’s engine under my butt, wondering about the fate of everyone held captive by Pandora. It’s a restless feeling, being useless and yet so vividly aware that the only person who might be able to help is currently unconscious in the truck with a wound she got because of me.</p><p class="western">Deadman sent me to get help. I got Fragile hurt because of it. Am I really that useful after all?</p><p class="western">A flicker of light catches the corner of my eye, and as I try to focus on it I feel a tension in every muscle in my body. There’s a swinging light, like a lantern, coming down the slope through the trees. The closer it gets the more I try to press myself back into the cover of the shadows, until I hear footsteps crunching through the undergrowth.</p><p class="western">The footsteps reach the road, and the light pauses, casting no light on its carrier. Hopefully, they’ll just...go away. They won’t come looking this way, to where we’re hidden behind the rocks.</p><p class="western">“Anyone out there?”</p><p class="western">I swallow back the fear in my throat, staying as perfectly still as I can. The man’s voice is wary, and he moves back and forth across the highway, searching.</p><p class="western">“I saw the lights of your vehicle. Just wanna know you’re not in any trouble; I’ve got a PCC to set up a generator if your battery’s died.”</p><p class="western">Slowly, slowly, I inch down from my place on the bonnet, praying it doesn’t creak under my shifting weight, and I creep closer to the edge of the boulders. He sets down the lantern, and there’s a couple of clicks from something he’s got in his hands.</p><p class="western">“I’m not going to hurt you, so long as you ain’t gonna hurt me. I’m a Prepper.”</p><p class="western">A Prepper – Deadman had told me about them. People who chose to live their lives beyond the reaches of cities. People who chose to live in bunkers out in the wilderness and survive on their own merits, and on the deliveries of Porters.</p><p class="western">Even though my heart is still hammering, I know that we’re in desperate need of help; Fragile needs medical attention, and we need to get back to Port Knot as soon as we can. I slowly step out of the shadows with my hand raised, and in the dim light of the lantern he turns. There’s a large crossbow-looking weapon in his hands, but he lets it hang at ease. He’s wearing a thick, Timefall-resistant coat and baggy cargo pants with boots, and there’s a broad brimmed hat perched on his head. He regards me with a gentle smile.</p><p class="western">“Need a hand?”</p><p class="western">He introduces himself as Sheriff, and he carries Fragile back up the narrow, winding track he’d come from, leading us to a small Prepper shelter. It’s only a small entry point, with a terminal set into its centre and a cargo rack on one side, but his cufflinks beep softly and the shelter door at the back of the entrance opens with a soft hiss, and he nods for me to follow him in. We pass through an automatic curtain of decontamination spray, leaving our clothes slightly dewy before a quick flush of warm air blasts through the vents lining the ceiling to dry us.</p><p class="western">Down the ramp, we disappear below surface level, and to my surprise his shelter is set up very to be quite cosy – there’s only three rooms, a bedroom off to one side, a main area that comprises of a kitchenette, chiral printer and a general living space, and what appears to be some sort of office. Sheriff sits Fragile down in a chair at the small dining table, and by now, she’s coming back around.</p><p class="western">“Where are we?” she mumbles as Sheriff moves quickly to the chiral printer, punching in instructions to the terminal. I kneel down in front of her as she blearily looks around.</p><p class="western">“A Prepper shelter, his name’s Sheriff,” I say. “He’s offered to help us – the truck died.”</p><p class="western">“Are you hooked up?” Fragile asks him softly with a raised eyebrow, and Sheriff chuckles from across the room. He’s gathering an armful of freshly printed packages from the printer as it spits them out.</p><p class="western">“Never got connected, never wanted to,” he replies, coming over and setting the packages down on the table. I shuffle out of his way as he motions for Fragile to peel off her jacket. She hesitates for a moment, eyeing me, but finally shakes her head and unzips it. Like her hands, from her neck downwards she appears to have aged rapidly and drastically. I look away quickly, the feeling of having seen something I shouldn’t have weighing heavily in my chest all of a sudden. Sheriff takes a deep breath before moving to unwrap one of the parcels. In it, there’s an antiseptic solution and several cotton swabs. “Never thought I’d have the pleasure of assisting the head of Fragile Express, either.”</p><p class="western">Fragile rolls her eyes and says nothing as he gets to work cleaning up the gash in her side, hissing quietly as he swabs over the injury.</p><p class="western">“We’re...we’re really grateful for your help,” I say, feeling useless, and Sheriff nods along.</p><p class="western">“Ain’t no hassle. Often have Porters passing through here, sometimes they need shelter for the night, sometimes just supplies. No reason to have the resources if you ain’t gonna share them with folks that need them more,” he murmurs as he rips open another package with his teeth. A handful of short white strips fall into Fragile’s lap, and he begins to pull them apart before pressing them into a crisscross pattern along the ridge of her wound. “Most did the same for me when I first got out here.”</p><p class="western">Having never met a Prepper before, let alone anyone from beyond East Knot City with the exception of Deadman, I can’t help but feel curiosity welling up inside me. He seems so...normal, compared to the vastly different stories I’d heard over the years. Corey would say some Preppers were anti-social to the point of aggression, but others were more welcoming. Some were level-headed and others weren’t of sane mind. All depends on their opinions of the UCA as a whole, he would say.</p><p class="western">“How did you end up as a Prepper?” the question comes from Fragile, and Sheriff sighs deeply.</p><p class="western">“Lost my family in the Central Knot Voidout, some ten-ish years ago now,” he says quietly, finishing the row of adhesive stitches and taking up a small tub of ointment, which he slathers with two fingers across the wound site before reaching for a long roll of bandage. “I worked for BRIDGES, back in the day. Vredefort division. Was out of town heading up the Directors security detail in Capital Knot when we got hit by the shock wave of the voidout. Next thing we knew it was all over the damn news. One survivor, that damn repatriate.”</p><p class="western">Something lodges in my throat. America’s hero, the sole survivor of a city-leveling voidout. His survival meant the annihilation of tens of thousands. There must have been quite a public backlash when it was discovered that he survived. It makes me wonder if he went on to reconnect the Chiral Network as some kind of penance. Maybe he was coerced into it.</p><p class="western">Once again, it’s Fragile who speaks.</p><p class="western">“Not a fan?”</p><p class="western">“Ain’t got no reason to be,” Sheriff mutters. “My whole family was wiped out and I survived because I was in Capital Knot bein’ a dogsbody to the man now President. That’s why I left, couldn’t stand all that talk about reconnecting America an’ shit. Nothing for me in the cities anymore.”</p><p class="western">As he starts tidying up, Fragile catches my eye and gives me a small smile and another eye-roll.</p><p class="western">“Sounds like we all have more in common with that damned repatriate than we think,” she says, and Sheriff snorts, moving away to throw the packaging from the medical supplies into the recycling unit. It hums and whirrs as it works, going quiet again once it finishes processing. “But if you’re not connected to the Network, you’d have no idea what’s happening out there, correct?”</p><p class="western">“The way I prefer it,” Sheriff replies as he washes his hands in the kitchenette. “Why? Some other upstart running around trying save the world?”</p><p class="western">Fragile’s short laugh is slightly pained as she gets up and heads for his Chiral printer, punching in a command. Moments later, it spits out another package, a larger one, and she unwraps it gingerly. It’s a brand new jacket; plain black and unadorned, but very similar in design to her old one.</p><p class="western">“Hopefully there will be soon,” she says as she pulls it on over her undershirt, which is ripped and stained dark red from blood. “Seeing as BRIDGES has been apprehended by the terrorist cell Homo Libertas, and the President is dead.”</p><p class="western">Sheriff goes quiet, and for a moment, there’s no sound except for the snap of the clasps on Fragile’s new jacket being done up. Then he turns back to us.</p><p class="western">“Something tells me you’re not joking,” he murmurs, and Fragile shakes her head.</p><p class="western">“Nope. We watched it happen, and East Knot City’s been left to voidout if anyone steps foot outside the walls. The outer limits will be a BT hotspot in the next twenty-four hours.”</p><p class="western">He dries his hands slowly, looking from me to Fragile.</p><p class="western">“Well. Shit,” he sighs. “And where’s America’s Greatest Deliverer now?”</p><p class="western">“Gone, has been since the Aversion,” Fragile shrugs, and there’s a bitter tone to her voice. “So it looks like if we want to reclaim the UCA’s governing of the continent, we’ll have to do it ourselves this time.”</p><p class="western">Sheriff shakes his head, before looking at me. “And what’s your part in all this? You BRIDGES?”</p><p class="western">“Technically, yeah,” I nod. “But I just worked in Chiralium Dispensary. I just happened to get out of there alive.”</p><p class="western">“She’s our messenger,” Fragile offers me a reassuring smile, and I feel my cheeks flush. “She was the one able to get out of Capital Knot and make it far enough to warn us at Fragile Express. Our Porters and staff owe her; with the Network compromised by these terrorist whack-jobs, we wouldn’t have had the heads up about East Knot being stormed, and could have sent our people right into a voidout.”</p><p class="western">“Great,” Sheriff sighs. “So what the hell do we do? I’ve heard of the Homo Libertas; they’re more of an army than a mere separatist cell anymore.”</p><p class="western">“Stay as off-grid as you can,” Fragile replies. I wonder just how much she’d thought about this; the next logical step in the middle of all this chaos. “No doubt their leader, Pandora, will soon start more proactive measures in her takeover. She’s put a bounty on Sam’s head – she wants him brought in. Which means it’s more than likely that she’ll have her men out there searching for him, meaning that Prepper shelters may be targeted. If you can stay as well hidden as possible, then you’ll be safe.”</p><p class="western">Sheriff nods. “You said the Network was compromised?”</p><p class="western">“Pandora has seized control over the BRIDGES Headquarters in Capital Knot, so she’s right there at the source of it. She has complete control over it.”</p><p class="western">“So millions of people are in the dark and only see and hear what she wants them to,” Sheriff finishes the thought, and Fragile nods. “Sounds like an absolute shit-show. What will you do?”</p><p class="western">Fragile shrugs.</p><p class="western">“Right now, I have to focus on looking after my own. Work on getting my people out of the field, keeping our Headquarters locked down and as safe as possible; if Pandora’s ambitious enough to forcefully take over BRIDGES, who knows what she’d do to us.” She says, looking to me. “And I’m going to strongly suggest you join us at Fragile Express as well. Pandora knows your face, and it’s only a matter of time until she finds out her goons weren’t able to apprehend you, if she doesn’t already know.”</p><p class="western">I shift uncomfortably, but her logic is solid. There’s nowhere else really for me to go. At least for now.</p><p class="western">Sheriff lets us stay for a few hours, even going back down to our vehicle and setting up the PCC generator to charge the truck for us. Fragile insists I rest whilst she monitors what’s going on elsewhere, and from the bedroom where I settle I can hear her murmuring softly to Echo over her cufflinks. Whatever back-up system they have in place instead of the Chiral Network, it truly seems limited. But at least it’s something.</p><p class="western">It’s only once I’ve lain down on the soft carpeted floor, with a freshly printed blanket courtesy of Sheriff, that my body suddenly feels so much heavier, so exhausted. Everything aches, from my injured arm to my back and my eyes. I’m only awake a little while, listening to the quiet conversation between Fragile and Sheriff in the next room, but it lulls me quickly to sleep.</p><p class="western">When I dream, it’s different. I’m not stranded on the Beach, at least, I don’t think I am. The air around me feels thick and heavy, like there’s a blanket over my head and my ears can’t pick up any sound.</p><p class="western">Blinking against clouded vision, I try to focus on something – <em>anything – </em>but it’s as if there’s a hazy veil between me and the rest of the world.</p><p class="western">“...never needed one before.”</p><p class="western">I can move my head, and then there’s the vague shape of a face. Short, tufty hair crowned in an overhead light hanging behind them. Their face comes closer. I realize with mute surprise that it’s <em>me</em> they’re peering at.</p><p class="western">“...moving across the coast, denser clusters of BT’s make it harder navigate. Even with DOOMS.” A deeper, gruffer voice from overhead. “Need all the help we can get.”</p><p class="western">I think it’s a woman that’s staring at me. There’s a fine line to her jaw, and the more I try to clear my vision the clearer she becomes. It’s Fragile.</p><p class="western">Fragile?</p><p class="western">Her hair is shorter, but the pout of her lips and the piercing blue of her eyes is irrefutable. She frowns at me, lifting a hand to reach out, only to pull away at the last moment.</p><p class="western">“Are you sure?”</p><p class="western">Before whoever she’s speaking to responds, there’s a snap, not unlike one of her jumps, but the scene changes. I’m back on the Beach. At least this is somewhat familiar, but my senses are so suddenly bombarded by light and sound that my body tries to curl into a tight, tight ball. Waves are lapping at my toes, and there’s sand crusting in the creases of my hands.</p><p class="western">I push myself to get up, until I’m kneeling in the surf with my head spinning. The wind is cold and spits up flecks from the waves against my back. There’s voices again, hushed over the roar of the vast ocean behind me. Slowly, I manage to get upright, and I trail my bare feet through the blackened sand as I try to follow the snatches of sound. Somewhere way down the shoreline, there’s two figures. Between what feels like absolute eternity and a split second, I come up behind them. Fragile stands uncertainly next to a man kneeling in the sand. He wears a light grey jumpsuit of a freelance Porter.</p><p class="western">“This?” she asks, and he nods. With his back to me I can’t see his face, but it looks as if he’s holding something delicately. “I’ve never seen one like this before.”</p><p class="western">“Neither,” he replies – no matter how I try to move, I can’t get around them to see their faces. “But I figured since you were gettin’ jumpy, I’d show you the damn thing.”</p><p class="western">“Hard to believe it can even exist here.” Fragile murmurs as the man starts getting to his feet, cradling whatever it is they’re talking around to his chest.</p><p class="western">“It don’t. Least that’s what I’ve been told. It’s somewhere in-between, this is just a resting place.” He says, and suddenly, I want to leave. My skin feels like ice, and something akin to terror begins to well up inside me, for absolutely no reason at all. But something in me knows that I don’t want to see what he’s holding.</p><p class="western">A part of me wants to know. How bad could it be? It’s just a dream -</p><p class="western">Then there’s a sound the confirms all these overwhelming fears, and I’m falling back onto my butt, backpedalling through the sand. I can hear myself blubbering, begging to go, to wake up. I can’t take my eyes off him and he’s starting to turn around.</p><p class="western">“Got a real set of lungs on ya, don’t ya?”</p><p class="western">He turns to face me and my breathing turns to wails; sobs that I can’t stop heaving. My chest feels like there’s taut bands tightening around it with every breath I take and I’m shaking so violently that I bite my tongue.<em> It’s just a dream it’s just a dream it’s just a dream - </em></p><p class="western">But the wails aren’t coming from me anymore. They’re coming from the thing in his arms, and tears blur my vision as I realize.</p><p class="western">He’s holding a tiny, tiny baby.</p><p class="western">“<em>Elle</em>!”</p><p class="western">I open my eyes as Fragile shakes me, and I blearily look around. We’re no longer in Sheriff’s shelter, but in the truck – I have no idea how long I’d slept, but it must have been deeply, because I’m all bundled up in the blanket I’d fallen asleep in, sitting in the truck we’d used to escape East Knot. Fragile is at the wheel, and we’re pulling into a port by a great expanse of lake. The truck’s internal comms pings as we pass through the checkpoint gates, welcoming us to Port Knot City.</p><p class="western">“Was I – crap, how long did I sleep?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. The world outside is still in that quiet pre-dawn stillness, with only a few other vehicles stationed around. Most of them bear logos of BRIDGES of Fragile Express, but there’s no one else around.</p><p class="western">Fragile pushes a squirming cryptobiote into my hands.</p><p class="western">“A few hours, we decided not to wake you – until your nightmares got a bit loud,” she says with a small smile, and I feel my cheeks redden as I chew the cryptobiote.</p><p class="western">“Sorry,”</p><p class="western">“Don’t apologise,” she smiles. Her expression is tired, but otherwise she looks better than she did when we’d made it to Sheriff’s place. She’s not even holding her side awkwardly anymore, and she notices me staring. “Sheriff was kind enough to give me some painkillers, and the lotion helped to seal the wound. In another day, I’ll be as good as new.”</p><p class="western">“Wow,” I murmur, looking away a little sheepishly. She drives the truck slowly through the open plan docks of Port Knot, past the darkened Distribution Centre and through a lane way between a series of shipping containers. “What will happen do you think? To everyone in Distro Centres outside of Capital Knot?”</p><p class="western">“Presumably they’ll all be going into lockdown as well, it wouldn’t surprise me if Pandora has even got troops posted in the Centres beyond city limits, holding as many hostage as she can,” Fragile responds quietly. “It won’t take much to scare everyone into submission. We’ve spent the last ten years trying to establish non-violent approaches to managing MULE’s and terrorist gangs, as well as the BT’s...”</p><p class="western">I nod quietly. Capable personnel must have already been spread thinly enough across the continent in attempts to manage everything in the wake of the Aversion, let alone any attempts to establish bigger projects to reclaim the land. We pull into an unassuming, barren-looking warehouse depot with only two other vehicles nearby, and as we get out, a man in Chiralium-resistant overalls emerges from a tin door and approaches. Fragile tosses him the keys.</p><p class="western">“Give her a new coat and reset the ID,” she says, and the man nods underneath his Fragile Express cap, hopping up into the cabin as Fragile guides me inside. In the low light, I follow her across the warehouse floor to a terminal with an elevator platform close by it; it’s not unlike the ones in the BRIDGES Distribution Centres, but on a much smaller scale. We ride it downwards, and her cufflink starts to come to life with notifications and calls.</p><p class="western">Fragile gives me my leave and I wander through the underground complex as she returns to work. I take to watching from an observation deck, over the main area with staff working away at their terminals and people running back and forth. There are several people wearing similar outfits to the BRIDGES Porter jumpsuits milling around, and I’m reminded of the man from my dream. His jumpsuit was a lighter grey, and the cargo rack clipped across his shoulders had looked much more rudimentary, like he’d had to patch it back together himself when parts had fallen off.</p><p class="western">For most of the day everyone moves around me, all with their own jobs to do. Fragile passes by occasionally, usually to give me a small reassuring pat on the shoulder, before she’s off again. Sometime in the evening, Echo calls me down to a lab off the side; I’m met by a technician who takes my little packet of medication and then sends me down to the hall to see a medical staffer who cleans and redresses my bullet injury; it’s almost completely gone now but the area is still red and raw with damaged tissue, and I’m told to be gentle with it for another few days. Sent back to the first lab soon after, the technician from before comes back and hands me a small case.</p><p class="western">I go back to my perch on the observation deck before opening the case, and discover that instead of only a handful of pills, I now have a whole case of freshly patented ones. A long lasting supply. Tucked into the inner lining of the case is a small data chip, which Echo chirps up in my ear again to tell me that it has the complete chemical composition data of the medicine, and can be used to have more manufactured. Apparently all I’d need is a terminal to use it, and the chemicals to add to its fabrication slots.</p><p class="western">“Elle?” Fragile’s voice comes from the operations deck below me, and I blink out of my mindless train of thought. Her expression is hard to read, but she beckons to me. “Come on down, I need to speak with you.”</p><p class="western">She leads me to an offset office that looks like it’s meant for processing packages and deliveries, but there’s no one else present as the door hisses shut behind us.</p><p class="western">“We need to figure out a plan,” she says, moving over to a chiralgram terminal and bringing up a map of the UCA. “Echo has been trying to pin-point the main areas where we believe the Homo Libertas to be moving and claiming based on frequencies they’re picking up on the piggy-back network of Preppers throughout the continent, but we’re no BRIDGES here, so what we’ve got is far more rudimentary.”</p><p class="western">“We’ve been…floating around some ideas,” Echo’s hesitant voice joins us from a comms speaker on the wall. “Trying to predict Pandora’s movements is nigh-on useless, as we have absolutely no data on her except for reports of previous attacks; no one has known what her men are really capable of...until, well, until they overran East Knot and took Capital Knot. The only solid thing we know is that she wants Sam Porter Bridges, most likely because he may yet have access to the Beach where the Extinction Entity Amelie is. But even that’s a stretch.”</p><p class="western">I watch as Fragile makes a hand gesture, and the large chiralgram floating between us shifts and changes, showing several dozen markers dotted throughout the Central Region. Many of them have small red crosses through their ID tags, with “CN Offline” popping up next to them.</p><p class="western">“Pandora is holding practically the entire nation hostage – everyone connected to the Chiral Network is under her thumb, and that means that people are going to be trapped within their own shelters, their own homes,” Fragile’s voice is bitter and cold. “Based on last night’s display, she will open the Network for up to an hour at a time, possibly every day, most likely to lord her control over us. Which is why Echo is working on an encryption that we can have sent <em>in</em> to someone on the inside, like Deadman, so that in that window of time, he can get information <em>out</em> to us.”</p><p class="western">“Wow,” I breathe, watching as the chiralgram flickers and brings up a proposal diagram of Port Knot City and Capital Knot – a purple, androgynous figure stands outside the Port Knot marker, and a red marker that looks like Deadman pops up outside of the Capital Knot one. A bright green line shoots from the purple figure across to the red one, and there’s a confirming <em>beep beep, </em>before the line goes bouncing back to the purple figure. “So when the Network is up, we’ll be able to talk to someone on the inside without Pandora or her people knowing?”</p><p class="western">“So long as they’re not caught talking into their cufflinks, yes.” Echo’s voice drifts down to us. “That’s going to be part one of the plan. Hopefully with that established, we can find out more about Pandora’s intentions and how she managed to get the drop on the UCA like this.”</p><p class="western">“But then what?” I ask. “And what if she’s already got her troops moving in search of Sam?”</p><p class="western">“That’s where I’m hoping you’ll be of use to us,” Fragile gives me a careful look, and a blue figure resembling me pops up on the chiralgram. “DOOMS sufferers are much more sensitive to the Beach and to each other. If you can reach out across the continent and locate a list we’ve compiling of known DOOMS sufferers, you can create a strand. A strand that will strengthen your connection to the Beach, and might just offer you insight to Sam’s whereabouts. If we’re lucky, you might have a shot at finding him before Pandora does, and warn him.”</p><p class="western">I stare at her, wondering if she’s serious.</p><p class="western">“Also,” Echo adds, “if we have enough people with DOOMS all connected, then we might just be able to crash the Chiral Network via the Beach to catch Pandora off guard and reclaim the Network for ourselves. If we can do that, we can seize back control of everything and block the Homo Libertas out. At the very least, it’ll give us an advantage over them as they’ll no longer be able to use any of the facilities they’ve overrun. They’ll be sitting ducks.”</p><p class="western">“Wait, you want <em>me</em> to go out there and find these people? I have...absolutely no idea how any of this is meant to work,” I murmur, watching the chiralgram. On it, several more markers in orange pop up.</p><p class="western">As Fragile opens her mouth to reply, a soft notification beeps over the speaker system, and a new voice pipes up.</p><p class="western">“What have I always been telling you? Connections are important,” Deadman’s voice comes in, and I suddenly want to weep with joy.</p><p class="western">“Deadman!” I cry, and Fragile smiles in surprise. “You’re okay!”</p><p class="western">“Well I’ve certainly been better,” his voice sounds strained. “But the more important thing, is that <em>you </em>are safe, Elle. I’m so glad to hear you made it to Port Knot.”</p><p class="western">“Fragile met me at the Incinerator,” I reply, shooting her a grateful look. “She saved my life.”</p><p class="western">“Just trying to help,” she says as she turns to her own cuff. “Echo, how’s that encryption?”</p><p class="western">“Sending out...done,” Echo replies. “We’re now on an entirely private line, Pandora wouldn’t be able to crack this even if she had a giant drill.”</p><p class="western">“Excellent work,” Deadman says hurriedly. “I can’t talk for long, but it’s not good here. Pandora has been sending out teams of her people in search parties to comb through the regions looking for Sam – seems like she’s not prepared to wait <em>that</em> long for him to show on his own. We’re being kept down in the cargo bay of the Distribution Centre, and I’ve caught sight of Wickerman – looks like Pandora’s using him as a real punching bag since she doesn’t exactly have any hostages of any higher power anymore.”</p><p class="western">“So you were right then,” I say to Fragile, who nods. “Thing is, how are we meant to stop her before she kills everyone in Capital Knot?”</p><p class="western">There’s a moment of quiet, with a rustling on the other end of the line as Deadman shifts.</p><p class="western">“At the moment, it looks like she’s refraining from any more murder,” Deadman says softly. “Probably because she’s already got everyone running scared. Every other BRIDGES facility outside of main cities has been overrun, and it looks like she’s somehow got the ex-Gardnos out there doing her bidding too.”</p><p class="western">“Gardnos? What’s that?” I ask, and Echo pipes up.</p><p class="western">“Gardnos was a defence force assembled by Rihana Gardener during her time as Director of BRIDGES,” Echo replies. “They were the troops the government used to protect BRIDGES personnel and construction crews in the developmental stages of a project we generally refer to as BRIDGES Three; it was an extension project that planned to re-establish smaller communities across the continent, along with the Cross-Continent Railway. The Gardnos were an army, of sorts, established to act as a security force to protect and guard the workers from terrorist attacks and MULE raids, which were becoming more and more common as more and more people began to step back out into the world. Even seasoned Porters were having a far rougher time navigating routes, so demand in the cities became higher as supply of movers and shakers lessened.”</p><p class="western">“So...what happened to them?” the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and from the look on Fragile’s face, I’m suddenly not sure I really want to know.</p><p class="western">“To Gardnos? Well, they suffered a worse fate than the Vredefort crew, sadly,” Deadman replies, and Sheriff’s face flashes into my head. He’d mentioned that he worked security in the Vredefort division. “Instead of just getting blown into oblivion, they were disbanded about five years ago, after communications with the Canadian Republic broke down. Way further north, what’s left of Canada feared that the UCA would try and make them become a part of the UCA by force with their fancy new gun-toting Gardnos, and the only way Rihana could salvage any kind of relations was to have Gardnos disbanded completely.”</p><p class="western">My world seemed so tiny only a few days ago, I never even considered what had happened to anywhere beyond the UCA. All I had known was the tiny apartment and the facility of the Distribution Centre, with bare glimpses of a world outside it. To think that beyond the UCA, there were other surviving nations as well? I wonder briefly if they ended up just as brokenly disjointed as we did.</p><p class="western">“So the members of Gardnos were suddenly left with nothing?” I ask. “And...they what? Went feral like the MULE’s?”</p><p class="western">“In a way, but they’re in a strange mid-way between MULE and terrorists – or <em>Homo Demens,</em> if you’d rather. They exhibit mentally unstable behaviours that have gone waaaay off the Richter scale of dangerous.” Echo says. “Rihana had attempted a rehabilitation endeavour after many of them went rouge, but it ended with more casualties on our end than successful retrieval attempts. These guys don’t just want to hold and defend their own territories like the isolationists, they actively roam and pillage. Honestly, they’re closer to true bandits in nature. They became the threat they were created to protect the UCA against, and as a result, many of the smaller communities out there have fallen or have been completely taken over by them. At least the terrorists have a leader. These guys answer to no one...usually.””</p><p class="western">“Which means...this is bad news,” Deadman says severely.</p><p class="western">“So somehow Pandora has got them under her thumb now. Looks like we really are on our own in this,” Fragile says softly, and there’s a moments quiet, before she looks up at me.</p><p class="western">I shift uncomfortably, but then there’s Deadman’s comforting voice – and I so, so wish that he were here.</p><p class="western">“Elle, Fragile’s right. Her idea to create stranded connections with other DOOMS sufferers is a solid one,” he says. “And with BRIDGES personnel and Porters being targeted by Homo Libertas, we’ll need to cut your ties with BRIDGES altogether to make you more inconspicuous. You’re a perceptive girl, Elle, and I believe you’ve got what it takes.”</p><p class="western">Something heavy weighs down in my chest, and I stare at the chiralgram so I don’t have to meet Fragile’s eyes. Despite us being the only two physically present in the room, I feel the uncomfortable weight of everyone present waiting on me. Like they can all see me.</p><p class="western">What choice do I have, really?</p><p class="western">“Okay,” I say as I take in a deep breath. “Who are these people I’m meant to go find?”</p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western">Echo runs me through as much of the barely-scraped together plan as possible while I get ready; Fragile’s crew of personal Porters help in outfitting me with as much as I need. They deck me out with a more durable, freelancer jumpsuit with an automatic hood, and I’m given brand new Chiralium-coated boots, along with a modified set of cuffs that are solely connected to Echo’s low-frequency piggy-back network. As one technician claps the cuffs onto my right wrist, there’s another technician with a large needle on my other side, grabbing my left bicep and jabbing me before I can stop them. When they withdraw the needle, there’s a small ID chip attached to the end, and I wince as they rub the small, bleeding incision over with a swab.</p><p class="western">I’m given a pack that’s about the length of my shoulders down to my butt, and an array of things to pack into it – my case of medication, sets of ration packs, a first aid kit, two sets of thermal undergarments – and one of the Porters gives me a wry smile as he hands me five pairs of thick, heavy-duty socks. A canteen gets clipped to the side of the pack, along with a PCC unit clipped to each port on my thighs. They’re smaller than the one that Sheriff had, and Echo tells me that they’re a newer design, made for more compact travelling.</p><p class="western">It takes an hour or two, but eventually I’m left on my own in the cargo lockers by the other Porters, and Fragile returns. Her face is set with an odd expression.</p><p class="western">“I wish I had a better plan,” she says softly as she undoes the small bracelet from around her wrist, fiddling with it for a moment. “It’s hardly even a plan. This is no BRIDGES expedition...it’s hardly even a rescue mission. I can’t even jump you anywhere, with whatever the hell that was out there on the Beach.”</p><p class="western">With a deep breath, she steps closer and beckons me to hold out my hand. Around my left wrist, she ties the bracelet, her fingers pausing before letting go of the little golden Chiralium bead that hangs from it.</p><p class="western">“This is a Micanga. It will identify you as an associate of Fragile Express and if you need to take shelter with Preppers along the way, they’ll be far more likely to help and accept you than if you were without it,” she says, before she huffs a short, bitter laugh. “Ten something years ago, I gave it to Sam Porter Bridges to aid him in his journey west. A token of faith. Maybe it’ll help you find him. It’s much more of an accessory now, but it will strand you and I together, so you’ll never be truly alone out there.”</p><p class="western">“Thanks, Fragile,” I say, almost feeling a little choked up. “I mean it. For everything, for saving me, for taking me back to East Knot...for believing there’s more to me than I even do.”</p><p class="western">Fragile smiles, but it’s a sad smile.</p><p class="western">“Be brave, Elle. Deadman had your files sent across from his personal cuffs to ours, so we’ve got your back as much as we possibly can from here. If you’re anything like what he believes, you’ll be the one to survive in the face of impossibility. He says you’re very similar to Sam in that way.”</p><p class="western">I shake my head.</p><p class="western">“Maybe don’t compare the two of us so much,” I say, a little more curtly than I mean to. “He was a seasoned Porter, he knew what the hell he was doing out there in the wilderness. I practically grew up in a test tube. America’s greatest hero has much more chance of saving the UCA by accident than I do of even finding him.”</p><p class="western">I follow Fragile out of the cargo area and into the main elevator, and she tsks to herself as we head upwards. We step out into the sunshine of the docks, and Fragile takes my hand before I can keep walking – Echo had told me there would be a small freighter in the harbour I could board that would take me across the Ground Zero Lake to the Central Region.</p><p class="western">“Don’t doubt yourself,” she says sternly, and I cast my eyes downwards, not wanting to meet her gaze. “And you can’t judge your capabilities if you don’t even <em>know</em> what you’re capable of. With your DOOMS abilities, you might just be able to waltz the whole way across the continent and not run into a single BT. But you won’t know unless you try. And you <em>can do it</em>.”</p><p class="western">She takes my head in her hands and touches our foreheads together.</p><p class="western">“You can <em>do</em> this,” she breathes, and my throat feels so tight – I hadn’t noticed just how terrified and anxious I was. Everything happened to fast. Before I can stop it, a tear sneaks down my cheek. “Deadman told me, and I believe him. It’s for this that you were born.”</p><p class="western">I don’t say anything, but I don’t have to – Fragile just wraps her arms around me and lets me cry into her shoulder. And despite the fact that I’ve got what seems like a perilous journey and impossible task ahead of me, in that moment, I feel safe, for the first time in a long, long time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Death Crossing is going to now be updated fortnightly! Time and capacity to write chapters whilst prepping and editing ones for upload is taking more than I initially anticipated to keep going on a weekly basis, however on every second week there's gonna be updated on other small side projects - currently still working on The Lost Porter, so keep your eyes peeled for that one too my lovelies &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Midnight Train Going Anywhere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle begins her journey across the fractured continent of the UCA, in search of other DOOMS sufferers like her.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The journey across the Ground Zero Lake takes most of the night, and I’m offered a bunk below deck to rest in for the trip. Sleep is hard to find, however, and I only get a few hours in. I ended up just laying staring up at the dark ceiling for a few hours instead, before finally giving up and going up to the top deck. I’m still sitting against the railing with my feet dangling over the side of the hull, watching the stars, until the night sky begins to lighten across the horizon.</p><p class="western">It’s an odd feeling, knowing that only days ago, I hadn’t really ever thought about leaving the confines of East Knot City, and now I’m not only <em>out</em> of East Knot but also on what can only be described as Mission Impossible. Now matter what Deadman and Fragile says, I can’t help but wonder if I really am going to be able to do this. Echo had reassured me that by the time I reach the other side of the lake, they’d have the start of a DOOMS list for me, along with a rough location for each.</p><p class="western">The slowly lightening skyline is edged by mountain crags and smoother outcroppings of crater rings, and I absently open my cufflinks to have a look at the topographical map of the area. Ground Zero was truly where it all began, according to a few footnotes on the map. A series of voidout craters that took the lives of several billion Americans, and after the cataclysmic event of the Death Stranding, over time the craters left behind filled with the relentless storms of Timefall until the lake formed. I stare down at the rippling black water, and briefly wonder if BT’s can take shape underwater, and if there’s any of them from those voidouts so many decades ago, still tethered to the base of the craters.</p><p class="western">The idea of a Beached Thing reaching up out of the depths to grab at my feet makes me want to pull my legs up and away from the water.</p><p class="western">There’s more gulls wheeling overhead now, and the other side of Ground Zero begins to appear out of the low-hanging mist. The tops of skyscrapers poke out over the top of the morning haze; Lake Knot City, my cuffs inform me with a quiet ping as I get to my feet and gather up my pack. I pull my case of meds from a side pocket and quickly swallow two, determined to remember to take them regardless of my hectic new world ahead of me. The freighter pulls into the bay, slowing its approach until it sits, dead in the water, just outside the entrance to the dockyards.</p><p class="western">“Are you with us, Elle?” Fragile’s voice comes in of the comm in my ear, my cuffs pinging with her incoming call. “I’m afraid this is your stop. With the Chiral Network hi-jacked, we can’t risk going into the dockyards, and you’ll want to stay as far away from the main city sites as possible. However there is a zip line set up at the peak of that hill just west of the docks. See it?”</p><p class="western">I turn until I can see the Y shaped structure, it’s two skyward prongs glowing brightly in the early morning light. From here, I can hear it hum as it powers up, shooting out a bright blue stream that goes over my head and connects to an antenna at base of the freighters mast, up on a higher deck from where I’m standing.</p><p class="western">“I see it,” I reply, and I take the ladder against the wall up to the higher deck. “I’m going to have to zip line off the ship?”</p><p class="western">“Only way to keep you as off-grid as possible,” Fragile responds. “Thanks to the engineering genius of some of our techs, we managed to get the zip lines to run via their own sub-network, so that they’re no longer dependant on Chiral bandwidth from the main network. It makes it easier for Freelance Porters who choose to work outside the UCA to get around, as well as moving larger amounts of cargo straight to land.”</p><p class="western">The mast towers high above me now, and I look around. Something uncomfortable is coiling tightly in my gut. Having never taken a zip line in my life, I’m more than a bit apprehensive. I just hope I don’t lose my nerve. The line on the antenna hums louder as I get closer, and one of the cufflinks detach from my wrist. I hook it up over the line, and notification appears, pinpointing my destination at the other end of the line. Taking a deep breath, I twist my wrist to confirm, and the line buzzes, snaps, and I’m rocketed off my feet.</p><p class="western">Holy <em>shit</em>.</p><p class="western">It’s over in less than a minute, but as I’m shot through the air I feel the thrill of it rip through me. I’m glad, momentarily, that my injured shoulder is my non-cuff bearing arm, because holy crap this would hurt so bad if it were. The structure at the other side lets me down with a satisfying whirr, and I’m automatically unhooked as my boots hit to the rocky hilltop.</p><p class="western">And just like that, I’m officially in the Central Region. From my vantage point, I can see a major highway twisting its way across the earth, in and out of clusters of trees and out across expanses of Timefall barren ground. Mountains lift away into the skyline, and the sun peaks out over their tips, casting the land before me in light, with long shadows reaching towards me like darkened fingertips. So many countless miles of barely-tamed wilderness, it’s daunting to even consider. And this will be barely an eighth of it, according to the topographical readout on my cufflinks.</p><p class="western">I begin to make my way down the rock face and try to imagine what this land might have looked like ten years ago, when Sam Porter Bridges would have stepped out of the city limits of Lake Knot and fearlessly trod into the unknown. It takes almost an hour for me to make it down to the edges of the highway, and as I get closer I notice that there’s occasional holographic signs popping up. Some warn of Timefall and rocky terrain, others dispense Likes from other Porters if you spin the ID tag in your own cuffs. All of them, however, are dark – without the Chiral Network online, I guess there’s little use for them. I wonder just how many other Porters followed in Sam’s footsteps and began working to reestablish something of an actual inhabitable world out here.</p><p class="western">After another hour of following the highway, I take a break under a Timefall shelter; there’s no hiss of decontamination or cargo repair spray to greet me, but it’s almost nice to have some sort of familiar structure out here in the middle of this alien feeling world. The sky feels too large, too open. I sip from my canteen, careful to monitor how much is left, and as I’m preparing to get moving again, there’s a call in my ear from Echo.</p><p class="western">“Morning early riser,” they say through a yawn. “Sorry. I sleep like shit. How’s the travelling so far?”</p><p class="western">I cast my gaze back along the road, from the direction I’ve just come.</p><p class="western">“Long,” I sigh. “It’s a shame I couldn’t get my hands on a vehicle.”</p><p class="western">“Too risky, you’d be flagged immediately,” Echo replies. “And it’s just as well – you’re a pretty terrible driver.”</p><p class="western">Shaking my head like it’d make them leave me alone, I readjust my pack and start walking again.</p><p class="western">“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t call just to make fun of me,” I say, and there’s a soft laugh on the other end of the line. “What’s up?”</p><p class="western">“Well, I’ve pinpointed the general locality of at least four DOOMS sufferers you should be making a beeline for,” Echo responds. “One is a previous BRIDGES scientist from the first expedition west, ones a researcher who works via remote contract for BRIDGES, and one is...a bit more complicated.”</p><p class="western">“Complicated?”</p><p class="western">“I have on record that they were previously involved with BRIDGES, more specifically with Heartman, but chose to cut ties after Heartman’s unfortunate accident several years before the Aversion,” Echo says. “And the guys history is a bit funky, too. According to Heartman, the man used to be a MULE.”</p><p class="western">I stop walking. Everything is quiet around me.</p><p class="western">“A MULE?” I repeat. “You want me to go and find a <em>MULE</em>?”</p><p class="western">“I know how it sounds, but Heartman’s association with the guy goes way back, and every report we’ve got of their collaborative research efforts seems positive. No idea how he broke free of the Delivery Dependency Syndrome though,” Echo says, as if <em>any</em> of that is meant to make me feel better about tracking down a goddamn MULE. “But he’s way far south, beyond South Knot City. He’s also the least of your worries at this point – your first target is going to be the scientist from the first expedition. Like most Preppers still out there that aren’t connected to the Chiral Network or the UCA, these kinds of people prefer the isolation. And a DOOMS sufferer is liable to be even tougher to talk into creating a strand.”</p><p class="western">With a sigh, I start putting one foot in front of the other again. The road beneath my boots moves like a slow conveyor belt as I walk.</p><p class="western">“So you’re saying that this scientist won’t want to talk to me?”</p><p class="western">“I have a sad feeling she doesn’t want to talk to anyone anymore,” Echo replies. “She dropped completely off the grid after terrorist attack on the expedition; she was amongst about a half-dozen of BRIDGES I that we had to assume dead. I only came across her because of some old backlogged records from the expedition itself. Sadly, a lot of BRIDGES members fell by the wayside in the first expedition. I haven’t managed to get a name for her, only an ID tag, but she’s definitely got DOOMS.”</p><p class="western">I bring up the map on my cufflinks again, and find that Echo has marked four location across the map. Many other markers have small red crosses through them, with tags labelling them ‘unsafe’, as well as a few MULE zones. I hope that to find the guy Echo mentioned, I don’t have to go wading into MULE territory.</p><p class="western">It takes several more hours of hiking along the side of the highway, ducking off the roads and through the shrubbery whenever a vehicle passes – I don’t want to risk being spotted by anyone. There’s only a few big unmarked cargo trucks that pass me, but they’re all either full of materials or people – many of them dressed in similar garbs to the Homo Libertas troops that attacked East Knot. Every time I hear an engine or the sound of voices travelling through the otherwise eerie silence, I duck into the trees or behind the nearest cluster of rocks. Other than that, there’s no sign or sound of other human life, save for the distant hoot of some kind of horn that rings out once, about mid-morning. It gets me frozen on the spot, holding my breath and searching for it’s source, but there’s no sign of anything. It takes a minute or two for me to un-stick myself from where I feel like I’m rooted to the ground in fear, after there’s no sign or sound to follow up that one, haunting sound.</p><p class="western">Sometime after midday, I check my cuffs again – I’ve made pitiful progress, by the looks of it. At this rate, I’m looking at another full two days of walking ahead of me before I even get close to the general location of this scientist woman.</p><p class="western">I can’t help but take a minute to sit and catch my breath. The world around me is silent and peaceful, with only the sounds of the wind in the trees and bird song in the distance. I wouldn’t have even thought that much flora or fauna could survive out here, but according to the reports Deadman had me read when I was first inducted to BRIDGES, after the Aversion more and more native species of plants and animals had been spotted returning to the wilderness. Apparently, BRIDGES scientists had also been exploring the possibilities of ‘bringing back’ extinct species as well.</p><p class="western">Chewing slowly on a protein bar from my pack, I wipe the sweat from my forehead, only to feel the phantom prickle across my arm. I pull up my sleeve and, sure enough, the hairs across my forearm are starting to lift. Timefall is on its way – maybe a couple of hours out, but it’s coming. I climb back to my feet and keep walking, thankful for the Timefall-resistant gear I’ve been outfitted with. At the very least, the automatic hood of my jumpsuit should keep the worst of it out of my face.</p><p class="western">Almost three hours later, I’m out of the denser part of the woodlands and the trees begin to thin, showing the sky more clearly. Dark and heavy clouds, pregnant with Timefall, are coiling low on the horizon. Soon, I’m completely clear of the natural plant life and it’s like I cross an invisible line – suddenly beneath my boots there’s mottled sand, and blackened rocks begin rising up around me. Another Timefall shelter appears between the boulders, the atmosphere seems to shift as the first specks of rain begin to fall, and I duck under the shelters cover just in time. A moment later, the temperature plummets several degrees as Timefall comes pouring down, and I lean against the stem of the shelter and sigh.</p><p class="western">Everything hurts. My legs ache and my feet burn from the walking. My back groans in complaint under the pack, and I’m left wondering how the hell America’s hero did this carrying <em>cargo</em> for people. <em>Years of previous experience, that’s how</em>. I let myself slide down the main beam of the shelter until my butt hits the dirt, and I feel my own heart beating, feel the thrum of my own pulse. I wonder if it’s my DOOMS and the Timefall that makes it so obvious.</p><p class="western">The day has already grown darker with the rain, but soon the light is fading altogether as night rolls in. I wonder, briefly, if Echo can track my own movements and has noticed I haven’t moved for a while. Maybe they’re just minding their own business.</p><p class="western">I watch the sky from underneath the shelters wings, and the rain shows little intent to let up anytime soon. Then, I notice a light reflected off the wet gloss of a nearby boulder. I clamber up, and spot the light’s source – a small, bright spotlight off in the distance, and beyond it, many others leading away in a long line. Some red, some yellow, blinking on and off in the darkness. I gather up my pack and shoulder it back on, and check my cuffs; there’s no marker on the map or any data on it, until suddenly my cufflinks seem to power up and come online. I’m connected to the Chiral Network.</p><p class="western">Layered above my map comes an audio-only chiralgram, and I hear heavy breathing on the other end.</p><p class="western">“Hello?”</p><p class="western">“Elle?”</p><p class="western">“Deadman!” his ID finally pops up on the chiralgram, and I feel relief wash over me. “Are you guys okay? What’s happening in Capital Knot?”</p><p class="western">“It’s very quiet here,” he replies in a low murmur. “Pandora’s keeping good on her word to broadcast out once a day, but because you’re only connected to my ID at the moment, you may not get it. But that’s how we want to keep it – if you can’t see her, she can’t see you. How’s everything on your end?”</p><p class="western">I rub a hand over my tired eyes. Where to fucking begin?</p><p class="western">“It’s been a long day,” I sigh. “I’m nowhere close to where I should be by now.”</p><p class="western">“Don’t give up, you got across the lake and you made it out of Lake Knot,” Deadman says. “That’s a hell of a feat for anyone in these circumstances. Meanwhile, we’re in a bit of a pickle here; Pandora’s had many of us separated off and we’ve been locked in separated private rooms. More like a jail cell now than anything.”</p><p class="western">“Shit...so you can’t see anyone else?”</p><p class="western">“The terminal is still active, and I’ve managed to get up the security cams of other rooms,” he replies. “I’ve found Wickerman, Heartman, Lockne-Malingen and the ward where Rihana is being kept. Looks like the ICU staff were able to convince Pandora of a small mercy – they’ve been allowed to set Rihana up for basic treatment and care, but they’re under twenty-four seven guard.”</p><p class="western">I feel something unclench a little in the pit of my stomach.</p><p class="western">“Thank God she’s okay...” I breathe.</p><p class="western">“Yes, but it’s not all good,” Deadman adds quickly. “They killed two BRIDGES staff today. Pandora’s broadcast tonight is showing their disposal. Big bonfire, right outside the city’s checkpoint gates. If she keeps this up, the chiralium in the atmosphere will become so thick, it could be a real danger to the people still within Capital Knot.”</p><p class="western">“Oh,” my stomach clenches back up again. “Oh no.”</p><p class="western">“You’ve got to hurry, Elle. I know that’s a tall order, but right now you’re the only hope we have left to hold onto.”</p><p class="western">“Easy said than done,” I mutter, looking out at the darkened sky as the rain continues to pour down overhead. Then, an idea occurs to me, and I pull up the map on my cuffs for a second to check my general vicinity. “Hey. Several hours hike south-west of Lake Knot City – is there some kind of big BRIDGES facility in the area? Somewhere near U-34 sector, I think?”</p><p class="western">There’s a pause before Deadman replies, and a bit of static over the line as he shifts around.</p><p class="western">“There’s one of the CCR’s main supply stations in U-34,” he says slowly. “You’re close by? I imagine it’d be a patrolled area as it <em>is</em> a BRIDGES facility, but it’s mostly an unmanned station anyhow...”</p><p class="western">I watch the lights flicker and dance in the rain. That’s gotta be it; lights leading a way towards a bigger facility somewhere nearby.</p><p class="western">“C-C-R...” I murmur. “That’s the Cross-Continent Railway, right? Echo mentioned it last night.”</p><p class="western">“Correct. Why? What’re you thinking?”</p><p class="western">“An unmanned station means no actual BRIDGES personnel,” I reply as I readjust the straps of my pack across my shoulders, hitching them a little higher before I step out into the rain, my hood hissing up over my head automatically. “Meaning that if there is any Homo Libertas or Gardnos, there’d only be a few, right?”</p><p class="western">“Elle, Elle stop – ” Deadman’s voice becomes strained. “Please, be <em>careful</em>. We don’t even know if the supply trains are still running. Presumably they are, because they’re on an automated system once they’re set off from each end of the Railway, but it’s too dangerous to even try. If there’s separatists there, you’ll be killed on sight! And I’m not prepared to find out whether or not you’re really a repatriate – not this way.”</p><p class="western">But I’m already pushing forwards towards the lights, stumbling through puddles and over barren earth. More lights are coming into view, great big floodlights hanging high in the otherwise pitch black.</p><p class="western">“You said it yourself, Deadman,” I huff, my breath coming in short puffs of mist in front of my face as the rain batters down on my hood, almost drowning out my voice altogether. “We have to try.”</p><p class="western">Soon, I’m almost within the security field of the railway station – and it’s <em>humongous</em>. The main station structure towers high into the darkness and there’s several security offices along with processing and storage warehouses lining the length of the station. I’m just about to ask Deadman if he has any idea of what kind of schedule the supply trains might be on, when a deafening horn sounds like an explosion through the night air. I realize with a jolt that I’ve heard the same horn already – earlier in the day – this has to have been what I’d heard before.</p><p class="western">Turning and looking back up the tracks from the same general direction from where I’d just come, a huge spotlight appears over a ridge, until the vaguest of shapes appears around it, and soon, a train so big it looks like an entire cities population could squeeze on board pulls into the station. It enters through the security field and as it comes to a stop, every set of side-car doors slide open with an automated hiss to reveal each carriages’ contents. As the overhead speakers acknowledging its BRIDGES identification, that’s when I see them.</p><p class="western">Homo Libertas troops begin to appear like ants emerging from an anthill from all around the station, until the whole place is crawling with at least two dozen men and women all clad in dark, mud-stained garb and all wielding large assault rifles and variations of shotguns.</p><p class="western">“Crap,” I murmur as I kneel behind a boulder just outside the active security field. “They’re everywhere. They’re starting to check the train carriages.”</p><p class="western">Deadman sighs heavily in my ear.</p><p class="western">“They’ll be looking for stowaways no doubt. Listen, Elle, please, don’t try anything stupid,” he begs. “I can’t stand the thought of it. You were my charge, and I know I sent you out there all alone, but you have to make the best choices for yourself – ”</p><p class="western">“Deadman, shut <em>up</em> for a second,” I hiss, feeling my heart hammering in my rib cage as I watch the troops go through each open-sided carriage one by one. “I don’t have time to walk my ass across America and hope Pandora doesn’t catch up or overtake me, I’ve got to get around faster than this. So tell me. How long will the train be in the station for?”</p><p class="western">“<em>Haah</em>, fine,” Deadman groans. “It’ll only be there for a few more minutes before it automatically sets out again on its designated course. Please, I’m begging you Elle, don’t get caught.”</p><p class="western">I wait, crouched low, until I see one of the train cars close to the middle of the string of carriages be checked over and then left alone. Through it’s open sides, I can see a few metal crates and boxes stacked inside, all strapped down to avoid sliding around. Hopefully, if I can get in without the security field announcing my entrance to everyone, I might just have a chance at sneaking through the shadows and getting on board without being spotted.</p><p class="western">“Deadman, can you remotely take cuffs offline if you’ve got their ID?” I murmur, and after a second of silence, there’s a <em>click</em> around my wrist and my cuffs go dark, the secondary cuff unlatching and falling open away from my arm. No ID to scan, hopefully no security alarm to trip. But it also means I’m now cut off from Deadman – if something goes wrong, he’ll have no way of knowing.</p><p class="western">Just as I’m having second thoughts, the trains horn blows again, and I nearly jump as I realize my window of opportunity is closing. I make a dash from my hiding spot across the edge of the security field, my heart in my throat as I keep low, moving as quickly as I dare. I cross over the tracks, which hum with an energy most likely harnessed from the Beach like the Chiral Network, around to the far side of the train carriages.</p><p class="western">Ducking from shadow to shadow, I have to pause and press myself to the backs of several carriages as handfuls of the troops pass by. Their voices are low and I don’t catch much of their conversation, but I guess it really doesn’t matter. I’m practically holding my breath as I bee-line for the carriage I’d picked out, and before I know it, I’m clambering in through the sliding side door and crawling into a tight space between the cargo containers.</p><p class="western">The sides of the carriages hiss shut again, closing off all light from the outside and leaving me in complete, impenetrable blackness as the train takes off again with a jolt.</p><p class="western">I’m still hardly breathing, and I think it takes several minutes, until the train is truly moving and picking up speed, that I actually dare to move from my hiding spot. I did it. Just like that, I did it.</p><p class="western">Feeling around in the dark, I re-attach my cufflinks, and they glow back to life, offering meagre light in the pitch black, but it’s something, at the very least.</p><p class="western">“Deadman?” I whisper, and half a beat later, his chiralgram profile pops up.</p><p class="western">“Elle!”</p><p class="western">“I’m on. I did it!” I hear the excitement in my own voice, and I can’t help but laugh. “I did it, Deadman – I did it.”</p><p class="western">“Thank God your safe,” the relief and joy is clear in his tone. “Well done, Elle, good job. The next stop will be the Distribution Centre that’s south of Lake Knot City – estimated travel time about six hours, if I’m remembering the CCR’s general route correctly.”</p><p class="western">I check the map on my cufflinks, and the marker that Echo placed for the scientist I’m meant to find is roughly a few hours walk east of the Distro Centre south of Lake Knot. That’s good, I can manage that.</p><p class="western">“Well, this is going to cut a lot of walking time off my journey,” I reply, and Deadman makes a noise of agreement.</p><p class="western">“Get some rest whilst you can, Elle – there’s still a long road ahead of you. I’m so proud of you for making it this far,” he says, and something sad settles in my stomach. I wonder, briefly, if I’ll ever see him again; if I do, I’m giving him the biggest hug I possibly can. “Fragile got word through earlier, apparently you’ve got a little voice in your ear to guide you?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah,” I reply. “Fragile’s got Echo helping me along the way. Hopefully with their help I can find all these people they’re hoping to strand together, and it’ll make finding Sam a lot easier. Maybe he’ll have some clue how to get us all out of this mess, provided I can get to him first.”</p><p class="western">“I don’t doubt it,” Deadman responds. “But I also believe you could very well find him on your own merits. Once you’ve created the first part of the strand, will you do something for me?”</p><p class="western">I blink in surprise. It’s not often Deadman really poses a request as if he’s afraid I’ll refuse it.</p><p class="western">“What is it?”</p><p class="western">“Your pendant, the one you’d never let me look at...” Deadman says quietly. “Once you’ve been in contact with the first person on Echo’s DOOMS list, will you check it? Focus your own intent on Sam Porter Bridges, in your mind, and then see if your pendant reacts.”</p><p class="western">Absently, I close a hand over the broken pendant chunk hanging from around my neck, my fingers tracing over the worn, chipped edge of the broken end of it. It’s one of the only things I have left of my time in East Knot.</p><p class="western">“Why?”</p><p class="western">“I have a theory,” Deadman replies, before something on the other end of line crackles with static. “And now I have to go. We’ll talk again soon. Stay safe, Elle, and be brave.”</p><p class="western">“Always,” I murmur, before the chiralgram cuts off, and I’m left in the dim glow of my cufflinks light. After another few minutes, my cuffs, too, go dark, and I’m left in blackness once more as the Chiral Network goes offline once more.</p><p class="western">I readjust my pack, loosening off the straps a little and shuffling it around so it’s slightly less uncomfortable to lean on, before settling down against it. Now that the adrenaline has stopped jumping through me so hard, I feel drained, and every inch of my body wants to sink into the hard metal floor of the cargo bed. My cufflinks still have offline-functions, so I set an alarm for five hours from now, hoping it’ll be enough forewarning for when the train approaches the Distribution Centre. Hopefully, I’ll have the time to figure out a way off the train without being noticed before it gets there.</p><p class="western">Despite the chill in the air of the cargo carriage, my jumpsuit seems to have some kind of thermal insulation, which I find myself gratefully appreciating, and I tuck my fingers into my armpits to keep them warm as I drift off to sleep.</p><p class="western"><br/>
<br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western"><br/>
<br/>
</p><p class="western">I wake up on the Beach, feeling just as exhausted as when I’d closed my eyes. I wish, not for the first time, that there was something I could take to make me not dream.</p><p class="western">Getting slowly to my feet, I look down at myself – also, not for the first time, I’m completely naked.</p><p class="western"><em>Great</em>.</p><p class="western">I try not to look too closely at myself, but what I see is a body I almost don’t recognise as my own, even though I’m certain that it is. Those are my legs, my feet. My soft stomach and my chest – sand clings to my skin like grit, leaving darkened patches against the pithy pale of my skin tone. It’s between my fingers as I try to brush myself down, and the chunk of my pendant still hanging around my neck begins to lift, drifting up into my vision.</p><p class="western">I pause, and watch as it floats upwards, like the gravity around it has been reversed – it hovers, bobbing gently up and down. Deadman said something about the pendant...that he has a theory about it. The piece seems to drift away from me, tugging at the tether of the cold chain it’s looped through, like it’s being drawn to something in front of me. Looking around, there’s nothing out here but the Beach; carcasses of crabs and fish litter around my feet with no smell of decay. Corpses of dolphins and whales cover the shoreline where the waves run lazily up onto the sand.</p><p class="western">Above the sound of the waves, I can make out a sound. A high pitched whining, broken and jagged like sobs. Right at the edge of the water there’s a little girl, long ringlets of brown hair falling down over her shoulders, sobbing with her face in her hands.</p><p class="western">“Hey...” I start turning towards her, only to trip on something that tugs at my stomach. Looking down, I gasp and stumble back. A thick, blackened umbilical cord stems from my belly and trails across the sand towards the waters edge, a large cross-shaped scar extending from the point of connection. Holy shit. What the fuck. What the –</p><p class="western">“Hey, kid,” someone steps past me, his gruff voice catching me off guard. He’s dressed in a loose, long-sleeved shirt and cargo pants, his feet bare. Dark hair spills in messy waves down his shoulders. But he’s not talking to me – his eyes are solely on the little girl. Mesmerised, I watch as he walks towards her. He touches her shoulder and she jumps in fright, before looking up and throwing her arms around his legs. “Hey, easy. I’m here now.”</p><p class="western">“I’m so scared, please don’t go,” she blubbers, and he crouches down to wrap his arms around her, scooping her up to balance her on his hip. She barely looks more than six years old and so, so tiny in his strong arms, burying her face into his neck.</p><p class="western">“It’s okay now, I won’t leave,” he murmurs, his voice carrying over the waves. “It’s hard to get home by yourself. Tell me about the nightmares. Come on.”</p><p class="western">It’s like I’m a fly on the wall, completely non-existent to the both of them, but I can’t make myself turn and walk away. I’m frozen to the spot, my hands clasped over the umbilical cord at my core, uselessly feeling tears streak down my face.</p><p class="western">She’s murmuring something in his ear, and he rocks her gently back and forth as he stares out at the vast, endless ocean before us. I feel the hairs on my arms stand on end as <em>something</em> comes up beside me.</p><p class="western">“Deadman is right,” a voice says softly, and I jump a little – of all people, there’s Director Wickerman standing beside me, his black hair combed back away from his face and his short salt-and-pepper beard trimmed neatly to frame his face. “Connections are important.”</p><p class="western">“What – how are you here?” I ask, my words feeling clumsy in my mouth. Wickerman turns his thoughtful gaze to me.</p><p class="western">“The way Sam Porter Bridges saved the UCA ten years ago is all based around the connections he made with others. Knots that stranded together people all over the continent,” he says quietly. “The only way you’re going to be able to accomplish the work ahead of you is by doing the exact same thing. I wish we still had Die-Hardman to guide us. He was one of the strongest knots in Sam’s strand.”</p><p class="western">“The President?”</p><p class="western">“But perhaps we won’t need him after all,” Wickerman continues. “Maybe as I’m able to reach you here, via your Beach, you and I can form a strand as well.”</p><p class="western">“How will that work?” I ask, and Wickerman holds out his hand. Slowly, I peel a hand off of my stomach and take his, and we shake slowly. He turns my hand over in his, before dragging a finger over the back of my hand in a circular motion, then drawing four short lines out towards my knuckles, and then a fifth line towards my thumb.</p><p class="western">“We are stranded, Elle,” Wickerman says, letting go of my hand after a moment. Taking a second to study him, there’s no sign of the abuse that Deadman claimed Pandora was putting him through – any physical signs of torture or injury aren’t present here on the Beach. I wonder if he, too, roams the Beach in his unconscious state. “It pays, I’ve found, to have as many friends on the inside as possible.”</p><p class="western">I swallow. “You know about Deadman being able contact us from the inside when the Network’s online?”</p><p class="western">“Connections are important,” he repeats, before taking a step away. Something off in the distance behind him flickers across the dark mountain peaks, like a flash of lightning on the horizon. A moment later, Wickerman disappears before my very eyes, and I’m left alone with a cold, strange feeling welling up in the pit of my stomach.</p><p class="western">Turning back towards where the man and the little girl had been, suddenly there’s nothing. The man’s footprints through the sand are the only indicator that they were ever there, and each print quickly wells up with thick, black tar, like a BT searching across the sand. At the point where they were standing, there’s what looks like a baby lying silently at the very edge of the waves. I follow the prints closer, until I’m reaching down and picking up the baby – for a moment, I’m afraid that it’s dead, but as I turn it over in my hands, I realize just what I’m holding. A battered and scuffed plastic baby doll, with both it’s eyes missing.</p><p class="western">With a yelp, I drop it into the water, and the waves quickly claim it, dragging it away with the surf. I watch as it gets pulled out to sea and there, way out in the depths of the waves, stands the man and the child. He’s still carrying her, but they’re wading, further and further out. The water reaches up around his middle, and they’re slowly going deeper.</p><p class="western">“Wait!” I call, suddenly afraid that they’ll drown. “Wait, come back!”</p><p class="western">He doesn’t turn, but the little girl looks up from where she’s resting her head on his shoulder. Our eyes meet, and I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. She stares back at me, transfixed, and the sound of my heart mixed with the rushing crash of the waves fills my head until it drowns out every other sound. I can’t move, I can’t turn away.</p><p class="western">As they disappear under the waves, I can’t do anything more than watch, and even then, for what feels like an eternity afterwards, I’m still staring out to sea, feeling nothing but cold seeping into my hands and feet as something burns deep in the pit of my stomach.</p><p class="western"><br/>
<br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western"><br/>
<br/>
</p><p class="western">I wake up crying, gasping for breath in the pitch black of the train carriage. The train’s still hurtling along at high speed, and I’m more jostled awake than anything. My cuffs inform me that it’s barely three am in the morning, and the alarm I’d set due to go off in barely ten minutes.</p><p class="western">Disabling the alarm before it sounds, I wipe my hands over my face and stretch. Every fibre of my being seems to ache, and I take a moment to unzip my jumps suit down to my navel – something about my dream has me unnerved, but I’m relieved to find that, when I tug up my undershirt, there’s no sign of the same giant cross-shaped scar over my belly button. Phew. At the very least, that part was just a dream.</p><p class="western">I climb gingerly to my feet, spying a sliver of light coming from what looks like a security hatch in the ceiling of the train car – the light is dim, but as I clamber up onto a stack of cargo containers to reach it, it gives me hope. If I can get it open, I can use it to get out – hopefully before the train reaches the station by the Distribution Centre.</p><p class="western">It takes some doing, and I bust several fingernails prying it open, but eventually I manage to slide open the hatch, letting a beam of three-am-moonlight fall into the train car. It’s not much, but it’s definitely better than totally blackness, and as I peer out at the sky, it looks like the clouds have cleared, leaving the sky open. The wind lashes across my face as I hook my arms over the hatches lip and heft myself up through it to get a better look at the surroundings, and I have to spit my hair from my face and squint to see anything.</p><p class="western">The land all around the tracks is relatively barren, and off in the distance I spot what looks like a Prepper’s station tucked amongst the rocks. I can’t make out much beyond the basic shape of the shelter, but the pale moonlight illuminates the side of the shelter, and a word printed across it becomes a little clearer. I have to really squint to read it, but I’m almost certain it reads ‘<em>Craftsman’.</em></p><p class="western">Turning around, I see the silhouette of a Distribution Centre’s hull off on the horizon, a darkened highway road winding down towards it alongside the train tracks as the tracks curve out over a river to a similar sized station to the one I got onboard at. It’s still quite a ways off, but I shimmy back down into the cargo hold and take a deep breath. Now I’ve got an escape hatch, I’ve gotta figure out a way off the train without being noticed.</p><p class="western">Idly, I find myself tracing the shape that Wickerman drew on my hand over and over with my free hand, until I realize what it was that he had drawn; it’s the basic shape of a hand – the circle is the palm, each stroke outwards meant to be a finger. Huh.</p><p class="western">The trains horn blows, amplified by the mostly empty cargo hold around me until it’s echoing deafeningly. I clamp my hands over my ears and grit my teeth until the sound fades, and I can feel the train beginning to slow it’s speed.</p><p class="western">Time to figure out that departure, I guess. I quickly pull on my pack and tighten the straps, before hoisting myself back up onto the cargo crates to peer back out through the hatch. Even at the slowing speed, if I jump from the top of the carriage I’m almost definitely going to break something on landing. Probably my legs. I swallow the thought.</p><p class="western">As the train continues to brake, I clamber up onto the roof of the carriage and slowly crawl towards one end. I’m buffeted by the wind and the chill of it rips right through me – more than once, I lose my grip on the bars that run the length of the carriage’s top as my fingers quickly go from cold to freezing. God I wish I had gloves. Carefully, I manage to hook my leg over the edge and I shimmy down the access ladder until I’m between carriages, perched over the train carriages couplings, still gripping the ladder. The train’s running with the highway almost parallel on one side now, and a glance over my shoulder shows the river winding along the other side, its water pitted with large, jagged rocks.</p><p class="western">Really not liking my options, but I swallow back the concern and wait until the train’s going slow enough that I’m sure if I jump, I won’t be severely injured. I rock back, and jump clear of the train.</p><p class="western">I land hard just short of the roadside, feeling my knees groan and give way as I try to roll through the momentum of the landing. I hit rocks and slide down into a divot between highway and train tracks, scrabbling for purchase to slow my tumble as the train continues to go by just meters from my legs. Only once the last of the carriages disappear towards the Distribution Centre and I’m left in silence do I dare uncurl from the ball of pain I’d rolled into.</p><p class="western">“Owww...” I groan and survey the damage; my palms are grazed, blood welling up around the tracks of dirt, and the sleeves of the jumpsuit are scuffed from the slide. I unzip the top of the suit and peel it down to see that my injured arm has a graze down my bicep. I pull a face – adding insult to injury there. My knees and lower legs feel like they’ve been scraped up too, and my ankle aches where I twisted it upon landing, but all in all, I’m alive and reasonably undamaged. For having just jumped off of a moving train, I guess I could be much worse off.</p><p class="western">Taking a moment to catch my breath, I gingerly drag myself back up the embankment and limp across the broad stretch of highway until I’m well into the grassland and shrubbery of the other side. Once I’m far enough away from the road, I let myself slump down into the grass. It’s damp and cold from the rain, but it’s a quiet reprieve from the sudden adrenaline rush. I loosen off my pack and dig out my meds and one of the ration packs, only to find a small tub tucked into the side of the pack as well. Curious, I pull it out and uncap the tubs lid.</p><p class="western">Three fat little cryptobiotes float out, chittering away, and I can’t help but laugh.</p><p class="western">“Thanks, Fragile,” I pluck them out of the air, tucking two back into the tub and eating one, trying to ignore the gross feeling of it sliding down my throat as I chase it with one of my pills and a gulp of water. It’s nice, that she thought of stashing some away for me.</p><p class="western">After a few minutes, I’m already feeling better after the tumble, and the bleeding from my grazed hands has stopped. Wiping them as best I can on the legs of my jumpsuit, I fish out the first aid kit from my pack and discover that Fragile has also packed me some of the same lotion that Sheriff used on her injury; I recognise the label, printed with a simple plant symbol on the side. The description claims it’s good for cuts and scrapes, so I take a small swipe of the blue putty like lotion on a finger and slather it across my palms. Instantly, the pain eases and the burning sensation of the grazes subsides. I dab another small spot of it on my arm, wiping it gingerly over the scrape down my bicep and the last of the healing bullet wound, before tucking it back into my pack.</p><p class="western">Definitely something I’ll be savouring. I think of my aching knees, most likely just as badly scraped, and decide to hold off on it. I’ll survive, I tell myself as I get back up and pull my pack back on. I’ll be okay.</p><p class="western">Checking the direction on my cuffs, I set out walking again, and wend my way through the grasslands ringing around the edges of a tall hillside towering away to my right. Several darkened Porter’s signs mark out a few scanner poles glowing yellow, and there’s another sign with a MULE logo on it. Squinting into the darkness in the direction one of the signs is pointing, I can see way out on the open plain there’s what looks like a camp with long pitched tents.</p><p class="western">“A MULE camp,” I breathe, and even though there’s no light coming from the dark tents, and no movement in sight anywhere around me, I move carefully and stay well clear of the scanner poles. If I step through into their field, I’d most likely be scanned and pinged. I vaguely remember reading something about MULEs’ and their Dependency Syndrome driving them to steal the cargo of Porters, but they’d just run you off their turf if you didn’t have anything on you. I’m not keen to wake them and find out if it’s true.</p><p class="western">I’ll have enough trouble with that if I have to step into MULE territory to find that DOOMS guy on Echo’s list. I think about it as I walk, and realize that Echo had claimed there were four people on the list already, but they’d only mentioned three; the scientist I’m on my way to find currently, the MULE, and the remote researcher. I wonder when I’ll next hear from them, and try to remind myself to ask them when they do.</p><p class="western">I trek my way around the base of the mountain, because it really is more of a mountain than a hill, for the next few hours, until the sun begins to rise way off in the east. There are more offline signs along the way, and I even final the rusted remains of a ladder at the edge of a running stream at one point, but other than that there’s not much sign of Porter traffic through the area except for a well-worn dirt path. I follow it as it twists and turns, through clusters of boulders and through copses of trees, until something makes my ears pop from a change in the air pressure.</p><p class="western">Coming out of the small wooded area, I can feel the hairs on my arms bristling as the atmosphere changes, and as the morning mist begins to clear I can see why – there are rocks and boulders seemingly defying gravity, floating slowly upwards and breaking apart as they reach higher and higher into the sky.</p><p class="western">It hits me in an instant, the realisation of what I’m looking at.</p><p class="western">A voidout crater, the size of a sporting field.</p><p class="western">I approach slowly, feeling something shift under the collar of my jumpsuit. I absently unzip the top of it and watch as the metal chunk of my pendant floats on its own, like it did in my dream, as if pulled towards the edge of the crater. The crater itself isn’t half as big as some of the ones I’ve seen in chiralgram reports – I wonder just how many people were caught in this one, how many must’ve died.</p><p class="western">I’m a little transfixed by it, and I take a moment to just stand and watch as the rubble from the voidout swirls lazily among faint black tendrils of otherworldly tethers reaching skyward. Amongst the rocks and floating debris, I can make out the silhouettes of dead crabs floating upwards too. When I dare to peer over the edge of the crater, leaning against the invisible, repelling force around the edge, I can see a huge, black-sludge filled handprint pressed into the very basin of the crater.</p><p class="western">Somewhere far away, back east, I was found in a crater ten times the size of this one. Porters must have spotted me from the edge, like where I’m standing now, and pushed their way through the anti-gravitational force to reach me. To get me out from between the tar and the debris of a city long dead.</p><p class="western">A strange feeling washes over me as the morning sun crests the top of the mountain behind me, bathing the voidout zone in a warm light. After a moment, I’m finally able to urge my feet forwards again, and I make my way around the edge of the crater, following the crumbling edges of it until I’m on the other side.</p><p class="western">Leaving the crater behind me, I press on as the sun slowly rises higher into the sky, until it’s very much past ‘dawn’. The grasslands seem to glow in the morning light, and a breeze picks up, sweeping the waist-high grass in across the open plain. I think of the man in my dream, wading deeper and deeper into the ocean with that little girl balanced carefully on his hip, her skinny arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.</p><p class="western">I try to ignore the parallels as I keep walking, the scenery slowly morphing around me and the grass eventually giving way to more barren rocks and Timefall affected soil. Shrubs and plants grow sparse with scattered, twisted hand-like forms of chiral crystals reaching out of the dirt, and soon I’m back to picking my way through boulders. No more Porter trails to follow, no more signs to show me the way.</p><p class="western">My cuffs ping after another hour or so of trekking across the barren wilderness, and I come over a sloping rise to see what appears to be another encampment in the distance, surrounded by a large copse of dead, twisted trees. There’s an angular building in the middle of it, with plexi-glass panels lining the roof to allow in the sunlight, surrounded by long rectangular sheds. Solar panels line the roofs, and there are wind-powered turbines set up in two rows along the eastern side of the shelter. I tear my eyes away from it to check my cuffs, and sure enough, I’m in the vicinity of the scientist Prepper I’m meant to be looking for.</p><p class="western">I wonder what would happen if I just...accessed their terminal and asked to talk to them. Thinking the better of it for the moment, I twist open my contacts and send a call out to Echo – hopefully I’m not disturbing them.</p><p class="western">“So, I’m guessing you got on a supply train,” they say through a yawn. “Because there’s no way you got there that fast otherwise.”</p><p class="western">“Good morning to you too,” I reply, and there’s a snort on the other end of the line.</p><p class="western">“It’s morning?” Echo asks, and there’s a pause. “Oh shit, you’re right. Ugh, sunlight makes everything outside my porthole look way worse. Give me a sec.”</p><p class="western">I smile in bemusement as Echo pauses again, before sighing.</p><p class="western">“Okay. Light problem solved. So you’re close to the first member of our DOOMS list, huh?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah, figured I’d check in with you and see if you had any more info on them before I go tromping into their security field unannounced,” I say. “You said yesterday that you had an ID tag for them?”</p><p class="western">“I do indeed. Hold on, I’m sending it through to you now. She calls herself ‘Valentine’; no clue what her name actually is. Her shelter got picked up on the odradeck scanners of some Porters about a year and a half ago, but apparently she refused them access to the terminal and told them to leave. The only way they had a clue about her DOOMS was because she apparently warned them to stay clear of a plain just west of her – she said there were BT’s crawling all over the place.”</p><p class="western">The crater I navigated a while ago pops into my head.</p><p class="western">“They...wouldn’t have happened to have died, would they?”</p><p class="western">“Only two of the three Porters returned to their suppliers; the third was apparently very sick, and in some big-shot idiot move decided to see if he could waltz through the BT zone and cut the BT’s loose using chiral cord-cutters. The others reported back that their buddy figured that if he was close enough to death, he’d be able to see the BT’s and free them, and that would give the Prepper reason to let them access her station.” Echo replies, a tinge of bitterness in their voice. “But it didn’t work. He was caught by a BT – the other two Porters only just managed to make it out of the area in time before the whole place turned into a crater the size of a football field.”</p><p class="western">I let out a deep breath that I didn’t realize I was holding.</p><p class="western">“She warned them away from it and they ignored her,” I say slowly, and Echo hums acknowledgement in my ear. “Great. So she probably thinks everyone out here is an idiot with a death wish. That means she’s almost definitely not gonna talk to me.”</p><p class="western">“You could always see if there’s any lost cargo in the area,” Echo says after a moment. “That’s what the great and powerful Sam Porter Bridges did to get into Preppers’ good books. Delivered what they needed and gained their gratitude.”</p><p class="western">Letting out an exasperated sigh, I look up at the pale clouds drifting overhead. The last thing I want is to be doing the whole America’s-Greatest-Deliverer-schtick. It might have worked for a seasoned Porter like him, but I doubt anyone will be as appreciative towards a complete nobody.</p><p class="western">“I’ll find another way,” I mutter. “Thanks for the heads up, Echo.”</p><p class="western">“Be safe out there,” they reply. “Let me know how everything turns out with Valentine.”</p><p class="western">I close the chiralgram, and start my descent down into the Timefall-pocked valley towards the shelter. It doesn’t really look like any other Prepper shelter I’ve seen so far, much more like an actual place of residence. Like a personalised design based off similar designs to the apartment buildings that lined the streets of East Knot. As I get to the edges of the trees, barren of their leaves or any other sign of life, the hairs on my arms start to prickle and tears spring to my eyes. Blinking in surprise, I look around. There’s nothing out here to suggest Timefall is on it’s way – no heavy chiral clouds immediately overhead ready to rain. I stand perfectly still, waiting with slow breaths. Nothing shimmers or moves around me, no tell-tale signs of Beached Things. There’s no upside-down rainbows hanging in the sky.</p><p class="western">Slowly, I creep forward into the security field. A scan is immediately run, and an automated voice comes across from a loudspeaker by the shelters’ entry point.</p><p class="western">“Beginning scan. Scanning Fragile Express ID. Verifying ID. Unable to confirm identification, no weapons detected.”</p><p class="western">I look down at the bracelet – the<em> micanga – </em>Fragile had tied around my wrist. That’s got to be what’s identifying me as Fragile Express, but with no other active ID from with Fragile Express or BRIDGES after I had that sub-dermal chip removed, I’m just a nobody wearing a bracelet.</p><p class="western">It takes a moment as I tread carefully towards the shelter entrance, but I start to smell rain. It’s faint at first, just wafts of it on the breeze, until I’m almost level with one of the long sheds close to the main building. The faint smell grows stronger the closer I get, as if there’s been a massive downpour of rain after an intense dry spell. The shed is open-ended without a door, and I peek inside the entrance.</p><p class="western">It’s brightly lit with sunlight coming in through the skylights between the solar panels on the roof, and every possible surface is covered in plant life. Everything is green with flora; staghorn ferns with big broad leaves line the walls, moss and vines grow up the legs of trellis tables and there even appears to be a small cluster of fruit trees off in the back of the shed. Legumes and vegetables – actual <em>organic produce</em> – sprout in rows, with hanging baskets full of flowers of every colour and size imaginable hung in long strings the length of the greenhouse above the tables.</p><p class="western">And in the middle of it all is a woman, with dark brown hair streaked with grey, standing with her eyes closed amongst the plants and her hands outstretched. No, she’s not standing, she’s <em>propped up</em> in some sort of contraption that I realize with a jolt is actually a wheelchair with vertical extendables to give her the height of a standing person. There’s a see-through Timefall-resistant poncho with a hood draped over her figure, and a broad, sweeping inverted rainbow of refracted light shines around her entire being as Timefall falls from tiny chiral clouds that dot across the ceiling.</p><p class="western">The entire greenhouse is growing, very slowly, right before my eyes. I can’t help but stare in wonder, at the sight before me – it’s beautiful, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The world outside is a breathtaking, bizarre and barren wilderness, but in here, it’s an oasis of colour and life.</p><p class="western">“Wow,” I breathe out, and just like that the spell is broken. The wheelchair spins, two large wheels on either side of the frame whirring as she turns to face me, and with a start I realize why she’s wheelchair bound – she’s missing both of her legs from midway down her thighs – there’s nothing left but stumps, bound in medical medical cloth that bears the BRIDGES logo on the strap that binds them.</p><p class="western">The Timefall stops, and the plants stop growing in an instant, the small chiral clouds dissipating immediately and the upside down rainbow around her vanishes.</p><p class="western">“Who are you?” she snaps, her eyes wide and her frown deep. She looks to be in her mid fifties, and she holds herself with a grace and poise that my bad posture could never imitate. “What are you doing here?”</p><p class="western">“I’m sorry,” I say, backing up a step. “I didn’t meant to disturb you. What you’re doing means you have DOOMS, right?”</p><p class="western">Her eyes narrow into a glare, and she wheels out of the greenhouse, backing me up further as the wheelchair retracts downwards until she’s in a sitting position.</p><p class="western">“You have no business being here.” She states coldly, whirring past me. “I’m politely requesting you leave my property. Now.”</p><p class="western">“Wait, wait – ” I stumble after her, trying to keep up as she makes a beeline for her shelter. “Please, I’m sorry I intruded, but I have to ask you something.”</p><p class="western">“I’m asking you to leave,” she repeats, wheeling up to the doors of her shelter entrance. The terminal tucked under the main entrance’s eaves pops up to acknowledge our presence. “Go away.”</p><p class="western">“Are you a BRIDGES scientist?” I babble, desperate to keep her from going inside. If she disappears into the depths of her shelter, I might never get this chance again. “Please, <em>wait – </em>are you Valentine?”</p><p class="western">The woman pauses, and turns back to me.</p><p class="western">“Who are you?” She asks slowly, scrutinising me with a hard glare. “And why are you looking for me?”</p><p class="western">I swallow quickly. It’s the piercing stare of her bright blue eyes that gets me shifting from foot to foot. I wish she wouldn’t look at me, anywhere but at me. But this is my chance.</p><p class="western">“My name is Elle, and I need your help. I was told I could find you here, that you were a scientist with the BRIDGES First Expedition thirteen...ish years ago.” I say, and the corners of her mouth turn down sourly, but there’s a subtle shift in her expression, and she doesn’t immediately wave me off.</p><p class="western">“BRIDGES can go take a flying leap. Who told you I was here?” she asks, and I wring my hands together. I think about Deadman’s words, repeated by Wickerman in my dream. Connections are important. I have to make this connection.</p><p class="western">“There’s someone named Echo,” I reply. “They told me to come to you, on behalf of Fragile Express. Not the UCA, not BRIDGES.”</p><p class="western">“Echo?” the woman repeats, and I nod. There’s a moment of silence as she considers me. Just as I’m certain she’s going to laugh in my face and tell me to get lost, she seems to soften. “You know Echo?”</p><p class="western">I try a small smile as I nod again. “Yes.”</p><p class="western">She takes a long, slow breath in before letting it out just as slowly. Finally, she tilts her chin up and beckons me forwards.</p><p class="western">“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from Echo,” she says wearily, before turning back to her terminal and waving a hand. The double doors of her home swing open and there’s an automated voice to greet us as she rolls inside. “I suppose you’d better come in. And yes, to answer your question, I<em> am</em> Valentine.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i feel like i should share my Spotify musical muse list for Death Crossing; it's comprised of songs and music that really kinda shape the feelings and atmosphere of the story and characters. find it here ---&gt; <br/>https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0LVhNERelKu0HRIGZbuWZG?si=V_dw3YumQcC93f-v3g4T5w</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Valentine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle searches for a way to forge a stranded connection with the listless DOOMS suffering botanist Valentine, and also finds endless reasons to cuss.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Inside Valentine’s shelter, there’s just as much greenery as there is outside in her greenhouses. Potted plants of every shape and colour line the walls and hang in basket hooks from the ceiling. She leads me into a sparsely decorated living area, and waves me towards a sofa as she rolls into the kitchen.</p><p class="western">I perch a little awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, dropping my pack to rest at my feet. Valentine is quiet as she busies herself with something behind the island counter, but a moment later she joins me and sets a steaming hot cup on the coffee table in front of me.</p><p class="western">“It’s not the most exciting tea,” she sighs, and I take a deep breath in of the heavenly smelling brew. “But if there’s one thing I do know it’s how to treat my guests. Please, drink.”</p><p class="western">I take the cup and sip it slowly as she watches me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before – BRIDGES didn’t exactly have an exotic range of hot drinks at the coffee machines. Coffee or hot cocoa, those were our options, and I didn’t have a taste for either of them. But what Valentine has made for me is a slightly bitter drink with a sweet aftertaste that’s distinctly berry flavoured.</p><p class="western">“Tea, huh?”</p><p class="western">“I grow my own trees and bushels for the mix,” she says, and there’s a glint of pride in her tired eyes, but her mouth remains set in a stern line. “You said you were here on behalf of Echo? How do you know them?”</p><p class="western">“You know what’s happened? In Capital Knot?” I ask tentatively, and Valentine shakes her head. “Wait – you don’t know about the hi-jacking of the Chiral Network? The Homo Libertas over running BRIDGES and Pandora murdering the President?”</p><p class="western">Valentine blinks. “The President’s dead?”</p><p class="western">I nod, and Valentine takes a long, slow breath.</p><p class="western">“Shit,” she breathes the word out, rubbing a hand at the dark circles around her eyes. She looks exhausted, like she hasn’t slept in days. “Well. I guess it was about time. Anyone who gets themselves called ‘Die-Hardman’ is honestly begging for something like this. Sounds like quite the story.”</p><p class="western">“It’s been a few days since then,” I reply. “I was able to get away from Capital Knot, get word to Fragile Express about the attack. But there’s nothing anyone inside of BRIDGES can do, so Fragile and Echo have sent me to try and get help. Kind of.”</p><p class="western">“You?” Valentine studies me with an incredulous look. “But you’re a child.”</p><p class="western">“Technically, yeah,” I shrug, trying not to feel too offended. “I’m also not even anyone significant. I’m not a Porter, I’m not someone with any kind of anti-terrorist training. Last week I worked in a BRIDGES Distribution Centre, processing Chiralium. I’m only here because I’m the one who got away. And Echo, who’s working with Fragile – they both believe that we can re-take the Chiral Network, but we need to make connections with other DOOMS sufferers’ to make it work, make us strong enough. I don’t know how it’s meant to work.”</p><p class="western">Now that I’ve actually said it, the weight of my whole situation really starts to hit. It’s a painful, twisting kind of feeling in my chest and throat and suddenly I feel tears creeping into my eyes.</p><p class="western">“Ah, fuck. Sorry – ” I quickly wipe them away as they try to get down my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not really a crybaby, I’m not. I didn’t come to you just to break down on you, I promise. I’m sorry.”</p><p class="western">For a long moment, Valentine says nothing as I try to recompose myself. All she does is roll her wheelchair over to a small side table and fetch a box of tissues, which she sits next to the cup in front of me.</p><p class="western">“Sounds like it’s been a hellish few days for you,” she says quietly. “But it would definitely explain some of the things going on around here. Have more tea.”</p><p class="western">I take a tissue to dab at my face and try to have another sip of tea, but my hands are shaking. I’m meant to be the one that Fragile is relying on to get help – Deadman is counting on me. And I can’t even hold myself together.</p><p class="western">“So the Chiral Network is down...all the time?” Valentine asks slowly, and I swallow thickly. Finally, the moment of overwhelming emotions seems to have passed. I’m okay again.</p><p class="western">“Pandora activates it for like an hour every day so far,” I reply around a deep breath. “To broadcast the shit she’s putting everyone through. She’s trying to lure Sam Porter Bridges back to Capital Knot.”</p><p class="western">“Who?”</p><p class="western">I blink, looking up at her. Valentine’s face is completely serious.</p><p class="western">“Uh...the guy who reconnected America? The Second Expedition West?”</p><p class="western">Valentine cracks an apologetic smile.</p><p class="western">“I have never been connected to the infamous Chiral Network – I wasn’t even a part of the sub-network that came before it. I disconnected after the First Expedition left me behind – so I haven’t heard hide nor hair of any <em>Second</em> Expedition, let alone any Sam Porter Bridges.” She says, and I can’t believe my ears. “I haven’t had much contact with the outside world in the last twenty odd years, and I’d honestly rather keep it that way.”</p><p class="western">“But – but you knew that Die-Hardman was President,” I counter, and Valentine nods.</p><p class="western">“Yes. It’s not to say that the outside world hasn’t come knocking. I’ve had plenty of Porters and Couriers trying to get me reconnected. They all have their grandiose stories of the Aversion and the President’s plan to rebuild America to it’s former glory,” Valentine says, her tone bitter. “And from what I’ve seen, there’s been very little of any of that actually happening. The world is simply not well equipped to be in this time of a Death Stranding; whilst mankind may try to hasten the process, the world itself is much slower to heal.”</p><p class="western">Something about what she says reminds me of what Rihana said, way back in East Knot when I met Heartman in his visit to her ward. The way Rihana had looked wistfully at the chiralgram footage of the outside world, barren and lonely and peaceful, sticks in my mind.</p><p class="western">“In any case,” Valentine’s words break through my thoughts. “I don’t understand how you think I might be able to help you. I have no ties or connections to anyone.”</p><p class="western">“You know Echo, though,” I reply, and she nods.</p><p class="western">“I did, twenty years ago. But I’m not the person they knew anymore.” Valentine says, her eyes growing sad. “The world moved on without me, but I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. All I need is my research, even if it goes nowhere.”</p><p class="western">“You research could be shared with everyone, you know,” I say softly. “Your greenhouses out there look amazing – I’ve never seem Timefall used that way.”</p><p class="western">“It’s not the most groundbreaking thing ever,” Valentine shrugs. “I heard something of a Timefall Farm way out in the south-west that’s doing similar things, harnessing Timefall for crop growth. If anything, they’re doing far more important work than I am.”</p><p class="western">I look around Valentine’s sparse home – where there’s no furniture, there’s potted plants and hanging baskets. The overgrowth of greenery almost makes the place feel like an indoor garden more than it does any sort of scientific lab. But with that, there’s more of a homely feel to it. Every plant and flower is obviously agonised over to make sure they’re carefully grown to their best.</p><p class="western">“You think Echo wouldn’t want to know you now?” I ask. “If you knew each other way back then, and clearly you don’t hate each other or anything, otherwise you wouldn’t have let me in – then why wouldn’t you want to reconnect with them?”</p><p class="western">“I wasn’t born with DOOMS, like many people. I didn’t have DOOMS when I knew Echo,” Valentine says curtly. “And Echo always said they’d never wish their affliction on their own worst enemy. I don’t need their sympathy now I’m suffering as well.”</p><p class="western">I mull over her words, looking down at the crumpled tissue in my hands. Even though I’ve only really spoken to Echo a handful of times, I can’t imagine they’d be anything except genuinely happy to get back in touch with an old friend. Valentine clears her throat quietly.</p><p class="western">“I’m sorry that you’ve been landed in this situation, I really am,” she says, her voice sounding strained. “But there’s really not much I could do for you. I’m no high-level DOOMS sufferer.”</p><p class="western">“Are you kidding? The last person I read about who could control Timefall was only able to summon it and stop it.” I say. “And that was the separatist leader Higgs Monaghan, the one who wanted to bring the world to an end before the Aversion. You’re able to control the actual density of the rain, right? I saw you out there. Your plants didn’t just sprout and die, they’re <em>thriving</em>.”</p><p class="western">Valentine waves me away, her brows furrowed.</p><p class="western">“I think Echo would be proud to see the work you’re doing here. And they wouldn’t have pointed me in your direction if they didn’t think you could help,” I say, and she shakes her head. There’s a tear sneaking down her cheek, and the air inside the shelter suddenly grows cold. Condensation forms on the insides of the windows and streaks down them, and something shifts at my feet – looking down, I realize that the carpet is beginning to grow moss. “Valentine, please – ”</p><p class="western">“You think I wanted any of this?” she grinds out the words, her shoulders trembling. “I never fucking<em> asked</em> to have this damn power. These damn nightmares. I haven’t slept properly for years, and this last week has been hell. I have no legs, I have no meaning or cause,<em> I can’t fucking sleep</em> – I’m <em>useless</em> beyond the care of my plants.”</p><p class="western">Droplets of Timefall drip from the ceiling, and I’m suddenly aware of just how vulnerable I am. If Valentine wanted to, she could just shower me in Timefall until I died of old age. And something tells me that even the dose of repatriate blood Deadman gave me wouldn’t be enough to slow or stop the damage.</p><p class="western">“Valentine, I’m sorry – ” I shift sideways on the sofa to miss being hit by several drops of Timefall. The leather of the couch quickly grows brittle and tough as it ages. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to upset you – but do you really think I wanted to be a part of this shitshow either?”</p><p class="western">There are small, darkened tufts of Chiral clouds gathering across the rooms high ceiling, but after a moment, they seem to lighten ever so slightly, and the dripping Timefall slows. Valentine’s eyes are on her hands in her lap, tears streaking freely down her cheeks. She looks embarrassed, ashamed.</p><p class="western">“I didn’t want to be sent on an impossible mission with zero idea of what the hell I’m meant to do,” I continue. I rub at my arms – her DOOMS has triggered mine, and there’s goosebumps breaking out in hives across my skin as the air grows colder still. A tear triggered by the chiral allergy trickles down my face, and I wipe it away. “Listen, I have so little idea of what I’m doing, all I was told was to ask for your help. Now you can turn me down, you can say no, I won’t force you to help me. But please if you’re gonna refuse, at least let me out of here first.”</p><p class="western">Every fibre in my body is screaming at me to run, I feel the nerves jumping under my skin. But I try to stay as still and as calm as I can. Valentine could very well kill us both if she unleashed a Timefall storm indoors.</p><p class="western">There’s a long moment of silence, and finally, she draws in a long, shaky breath before wiping away the tears on her face. The clouds on the ceiling recede, and the Timefall stops threatening to drip from overhead. Getting up slowly, I move to the window and open it, letting in the fresh air. The carpet is damp and squishy with the quickly dying moss under my boots, but the sunlight pouring in the window brings a breeze in too, and after a moment, Valentine looks up at me.</p><p class="western">“I haven’t had to face anyone...” she murmurs softly. “I haven’t had to face myself...my own pain, in a long time. I’m sorry.”</p><p class="western">I try to offer her a smile. I recall, briefly, how when I was going through my quarantine treatments, I would sometimes have panic attacks that resulted in my screaming and trashing the room. Whilst other doctors had yelled and told me to calm down, Deadman had been the quiet voice of logic and reason. And his gentle approach had always worked for me – I’m just glad that it seemed to have worked here, too.</p><p class="western">“It’s okay,” I say, just grateful that I’m no longer in immediate danger of death-by-Timefall. “Shit happens, right?”</p><p class="western">Valentine shakes her head with a sigh, before rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.</p><p class="western">“Right...I think...I think I need some time to really consider this,” she says. “This last week has been awful, my head’s not in a good place right now.”</p><p class="western">“I wonder if it has anything to do with Pandora’s takeover,” I muse. “It’s been a few days since she took over Capital Knot and hi-jacked the Network.”</p><p class="western">“Doubtful,” Valentine replies bitterly. “My current problems stem from an attack last week that wiped out a small settlement town just north of here. Terrorist nut-jobs left the entire place an absolute mess, everyone inside was massacred. Now the whole place is crawling with BT’s...and they’re so much louder than I remembered. They’re constantly howling, screaming...it keeps me awake all hours.”</p><p class="western">I turn back to Valentine.</p><p class="western">“Wait, terrorists took out a settlement?” I repeat. “It could be the Gardnos, Deadman said that Pandora had them under her control.”</p><p class="western">“What does it matter who did it?” Valentine asks. “At least they didn’t nuke the place like they did Middle Knot – I wouldn’t be here if that was the case. The problem is what’s left behind – the Beached Things. I’ve never heard them act this way before.”</p><p class="western">“That’s weird. I didn’t realize BT’s made a lot of noise unless they were hunting,” I say, and Valentine nods.</p><p class="western">“That’s what I thought. But they’re relentless. The only time they seem to shut up is for an hour or so each night. I’ve tried getting as close as I can, to see if I can stop the Timefall that comes down in the area to make them go away, but my access with my chair is somewhat limited, and I can’t stop the rain for very long.” Valentine rolls her eyes as she looks down at her bandaged stumps. “See just how useful I am? Just...just give me some time.”</p><p class="western">I leave Valentine alone to think for a while, and end up sitting out on the back verandah of her shelter. The rows of greenhouses out the back stand tall and silent, and beyond them, there are dark, coiling Chiral clouds pregnant with rain. Having approached from the opposite direction, I hadn’t even seen them upon my arrival, so I shimmy down to the ground and head through the walkways between the greenhouse sheds. The ground slopes upwards on an incline and, when I reach the top, I’m suddenly battered by the sharp, cold wind that slaps across my face.</p><p class="western">Bracing myself against the bluster, I peer down the other side of the slope and suddenly, I see what Valentine was talking about. A completely decimated settlement town lies only a few kilometres away, and from here I can see the Timefall hailing down on the broken and battered buildings. And even from here, I can hear the screeching and the wailing of the Beached Things, carried to my ears on the wind. If Valentine can hear them all the way inside her own home, her DOOMS must somehow amplify the sound.</p><p class="western">No wonder she’s unable to get any peace; these sounds would be enough to give me nightmares.</p><p class="western">Before I really know what I’m doing, I find myself scuttling down the other side of the slope, over rocks and down Timefall-worn ditches until I’m picking my way across the barren earth towards the destroyed settlement. As the temperature drops my automatic hood pops up over my head, and soon, I’m trudging through the showering Timefall.</p><p class="western">I don’t even have a plan. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I have no weapons or any way to protect myself from the BT’s, but as I’m berating myself, I realize that if the BT’s are hunting something, there might be a survivor trapped somewhere inside. And, at the very least, maybe if I can find them or help them get <em>out</em>, it’ll quieten down the BT’s.</p><p class="western">“Maybe if that shuts them up,” I murmur to myself through chattering teeth as the air gets colder and colder. “Maybe Valentine will help me. Fuck. I don’t know.”</p><p class="western">Chiral tears start to run down my face as I step through the broken security checkpoint gates at the edge of the city, and that’s when I spot the first BT. It’s drifting, moaning low and mournfully, by an overturned vehicle. I crouch low, trying to slow my breathing as much as I can. Moving slowly, I creep passed the floating spectre, surprising myself as it doesn’t even notice me. Once I’m sure I’m out of it’s radius, I pick my way carefully through the debris and rubble of the outer settlement walls, scanning the area constantly for more of them. Even with none in sight, there’s still their wails carried in the chill breeze.</p><p class="western">“No wonder Valentine can’t fucking sleep,” I mutter. “This is ridiculous.”</p><p class="western">After another five minutes of creeping, I come across a trio of BT’s, all seemingly tethered together, and <em>all</em> of them are searching, leaving tar-filled handprints across the ground and up battered building walls. I hang back, trying to scope roughly where they’re searching versus where I might be able to bypass them.</p><p class="western">It takes a moment, but once I’m pretty sure that I can do it, I draw in a deep breath and hold it, before edging forwards and starting to creep around the drifting ghosts, their outlines shimmering and scattering every time I try to focus on them. I stick as close to the other side of the street as I can, hugging the walls and stopping each time one of them seems to turn my way. My head pounds and my chest twists uncomfortably as I struggle not to gasp for breath, but I manage to get around them and a couple dozen feet away from them before I have to let out the air in my lungs with a relieved sigh.</p><p class="western">Making my way deeper into the settlement’s remnants, I follow the growing howls of the Beached Things, coming across more and more of them. However even though they’re searching, it doesn’t seem that they’re noticing me at all – until I realize why. Soon, I’m standing before what appears to be a ruined hospital, and there’s a dozen BT’s or more drifting and clawing their way around the perimeter.</p><p class="western">“Of course,” I breathe slowly. “Lots of people probably died here...meaning a lot of BT’s.”</p><p class="western">Crap.</p><p class="western">Then I hear it, faintly, over the sounds of the BT’s screeches and moans; a high-pitched keening whine that sounds like someone crying. Someone <em>alive.</em></p><p class="western">Double crap. There’s gotta be a survivor inside; that’s what’s got the BT’s so riled up. It’s any wonder how they haven’t already reached whoever is in there. Well...I guess I really can’t turn back now without doing something. It’d haunt me for forever knowing I didn’t try.</p><p class="western">“Fuck it,” I mutter as I start trying to pick my way around the side of the hospital building, looking for a way in. Towards the back, there’s only one or two BT’s drifting, but there’s also a large blown-out hole in the wall – perfectly sized for a person to climb through. “Okay...here goes fuck all…”</p><p class="western">I inhale as deeply as I dare before creeping forwards, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest with every step as I get closer and closer to the hole. One of the BT’s gives a screech and swings my way as I knock a small pile of rubble sideways, and I freeze on the spot as it seems to look around, scanning through its thick veil of shadows.</p><p class="western">“It’s okay...” I breathe out in a whisper, hardly believing that trying to lull a Beached thing would even work. My eyes are streaming with Chiral allergy tears now, and I very slowly try to wipe my vision clear, not daring to move too quickly. “Just...go away. I’m not here.”</p><p class="western"><em>Idiot</em> , I think. <em>Stupid idiot girl! What good will that do?!</em></p><p class="western">A moment later, the inky black handprints that had plopped to the ground pointed directly at me turns away, and the BT drifts in the other direction, seemingly in search of something else.</p><p class="western">Holy shitballs. I put it down to pure dumb luck, because I’m sure as hell not going to try that again, and sneak my way through the hole in the wall and into the hospital. Once inside, my hood retracts without sensing any rain pattering down on it, and I look start poking around, carefully peeking into each room as I go.</p><p class="western">It’s a completely deserted building, but the closer I get to the front end of it, the louder the crying gets, echoing off the walls, ringing from a loudspeaker set high in a corner. I stare at the speaker for a moment, wondering what the <em>hell</em> do I do now, when there’s a voice in my ear that makes me jump a foot in the air.</p><p class="western">“Elle? Are you there?”</p><p class="western">“Jesus! Fuck – <em>Christ </em>Echo, don’t sneak up on me!” I hiss, suppressing the desperate urge to scream.</p><p class="western">“Sorry – I just saw your vitals going insane, where are you?” Echo says quickly, their voice filled with worry. “What’s going on?”</p><p class="western">“I’m – shit, I’m <em>trying</em> to convince Valentine that she should make a strand with me,” I reply, slumping against a cracked tile wall. “There’s been a settlement not far from her overrun with BT’s and she’s unable to concentrate or sleep because of them, they’re going mental.”</p><p class="western">Echo’s quiet for a second.</p><p class="western">“Please don’t tell me you waded into BT territory, Elle. Please don’t.”</p><p class="western">“Okay then,” I say through a deep breath to try and calm the pounding in my ears. “I won’t.”</p><p class="western">“Oh my God, are you insane?!”</p><p class="western">“There’s someone <em>here</em>, Echo!” I retort quickly. “There’s a survivor trapped in here and it’s what’s calling the BT’s. If I can get them out, at the very least the BT’s won’t be so much of an issue for Valentine. If she can think straight for five minutes, maybe she’ll form a strand with me.”</p><p class="western">“…fffffucking hell,” Echo breathes. “Shit. What the hell. You’re absolutely nuts.”</p><p class="western">I rub the heels of my hands over my eyes; my head is still throbbing and there’s still tears pouring useless from my eyes, and all I want is for this damn nightmare to be over.</p><p class="western">“Yeah. Maybe I am. But I’m here now so I’ve got to do something. At the very least I’ve got to find the survivor,” I grit my teeth and push myself back upright. “Since you’re here, maybe you could give me a hand?”</p><p class="western">There’s scuffling on the other end of the line.</p><p class="western">“Yeah. Right, of course. Okay. The settlement town near Valentine’s lab, right?” Echo says, and there’s a quiet beep on their end. “I’ve found it. Satellite Town UCA-009274. Looks like the Gardnos must have hit it almost week ago; there’s no signs of life anywhere on the scanners and all electricity has been hit with what looks like an EMP pulse.”</p><p class="western">“No signs of life?” I repeat. “But I’m in the hospital, Echo, and there’s someone here – listen.”</p><p class="western">We both go quiet for a moment, and the strained wails seem to envelop me.</p><p class="western">“Oh shit, you’re right. That’s...that sounds like a child.” They say. “Ummm...hold on, I’m bringing up the hospital schematics – I’ve got it. Head downstairs into the lower levels, there was a children's ward down there.”</p><p class="western"><em>Great</em>, I think to myself as I find my way to the half-destroyed stairwell. Each steps creaks and groans under my weight as I move as carefully as I can. I really don’t know how I’m meant to get a kid out of this mess, let alone myself.</p><p class="western">At the base of the stairs, the area opens up into an open-plan ward, with rows of overturned and decimated cots lining the walls, happy colourful wallpapers with cheerful characters riddled with blast holes. Soft toys lie scattered across the floor in shreds, but no matter where I look, there’s no sign of anyone.</p><p class="western">“Hello…?” I call softly, and the only response is the rain pelting down overhead, and the continuous whines and sobs coming over the speaker system. “Hey Echo – can you find where that speaker comes from, or what area it’s connected to?”</p><p class="western">“Good thinking,” Echo says, and a moment later they’re back. “There’s a sub-level beneath where you are right now if I’m right. That’s where the PA system is connecting from, but I know what’s meant to be down there. There’s nothing registered in the hospitals system files – it might just be a basement level, storage or something.”</p><p class="western">“Well, maybe whoever survived found their way down there,” I murmur as I cross the floor of the children’s ward, stepping over trashed beds and other furniture strewn everywhere. For all that the place suggests that a week ago, it would have been a bustling, busy workplace of healing and care, there’s a disturbing lack of bodies that I have to chalk up to necrosis.</p><p class="western">There’s a door at the other end of the ward that leads into a darkened access stairwell, and I peer down into the inky blackness. All manner of shit could be down there...waiting. I really don’t feel like walking headfirst into a Beached Thing.</p><p class="western">“Uh...Echo? My jumpsuit doesn’t happen to have some kind of torch attached to it, does it?”</p><p class="western">“Hmm? Oh, pull up your hood. There’s a headlamp built into the hoods rim, that should help. I might lose you as you head deeper down, so let me know once you’re back up in range.”</p><p class="western">I follow their instruction, and my fingers find a small button at the very peak of the hoods rim, directly overhead. With a push, a bright white light beams down to show the way, and I suddenly feel much better about taking the stairs further into the bowels of the hospital. At the base of the stairs, another door hangs off its sliding rail, sparking with electricity as I step through it into a large chamber that’s filled with rows of darkened pods, all of them large enough to hold a person each.</p><p class="western">“Fuck, what the hell is this place?” I breathe, moving to shine my headlamp around. The pods are all connected by a mass of wires and cabling, all the cables leading to outlets in the walls they’re lined up against, with large circular incubators built into the walls. It takes me a second, and then I realize what I’m looking at. “Oh no. Oh, fuck.”</p><p class="western">It’s a <em>still-mother lab</em>.</p><p class="western">I’ve never inside a still-mother lab before, but I’d seen Deadman speaking via chiralgram with other BRIDGES scientists who were working in them – plus Corey had once shown me a photo of a visit he’d made to the lab his assigned BB had come from. It had given me the creeps for two weeks afterwards, and I feel that same tingling fear prickling up my spine as I swallow back the lump in my throat. Fuck.</p><p class="western">Darkened Bridge-Baby pods line the walls in the incubators, and as I pass each still-mother pod, the blank faces of each brain-dead still-mother lies gaunt and pale within them. There’s a low hum of electricity; I’ll bet there’s some sort of back-up generator still running to keep each pod active. If there wasn’t, this would undoubtedly be an absolute hive of Beached Things.</p><p class="western">Deadman had told me about the BB’s and their still-mothers, women who had suffered through tragic accidents often resulting in brain-death comas, salvaged and to be survived by their babies – not alive, not dead fetus’ sustained in womb-pods and capable of trance connection to living people to act as portable BT-detectors.</p><p class="western">I think about the BB that Corey had carried, how that little baby had given me a Like and had made Corey’s Odradeck give me a high-five. It feels like a lifetime ago, now.</p><p class="western">The sounds of the crying that I had followed all the way down here drifts to my ears again, and this time it’s not through any tinny speaker. I follow the noise through the chamber, swallowing back the dread as I finally come across a pod hooked into its incubator, still glowing a faint, dusty red from within.</p><p class="western">“Oh no,” I can’t help myself, and I reach out and gingerly unhook the pod, and the scrunched up-face of the wailing BB unveils itself. It stops crying when it sees me, whimpering at me with big, scared eyes. “Oh no.”</p><p class="western">Looking around, there’s really nothing left for either of us here – the moment the BB stopped crying when I picked up its pod, the howls coming from the BT’s upstairs seemed to lessen. Of course it’s crying would have drawn them in. Of course they would never have been able to reach it – BB’s aren’t really alive, after all.</p><p class="western">“Elle?” Echo’s voice comes in stutters and crackles over the comms. “-lle? Are y- -ere?”</p><p class="western">“Echo,” I call as loud as I dare. “Echo I found it.”</p><p class="western">“A- -ey -jured?” their voice cuts in and out, and I quickly gather up the cables and cords that plugged the BB into its incubator and hurry out, bundling the pod up tightly in my arms. On my way back up the stairs out of the still-mother chamber, their voice comes in clearer. “Elle? Where are you?”</p><p class="western">“It’s a BB, Echo,” I breathe as I cross the floor of the children ward. “It’s a fucking Bridge Baby. That’s what’s drawing in the BT’s. It was still all hooked up but with the Chiral Network down it’s not able to connect to its still-mother.”</p><p class="western">“You found a BB?”</p><p class="western">“A whole fucking lab. A still-mother chamber, beneath the children’s ward,” I pant as I take the stairs back up to the first floor two at a time. “This one...this one was the only one left. Every other pod was dead in their sockets.”</p><p class="western">“Shit,” Echo replies. “Holy shit. How are you gonna get out of there with a BB? With the racket it will make once it senses the BT’s, you’re going to be a sitting duck. You gotta leave it, Elle, it’ll kill you.”</p><p class="western">“What? No!” I can’t help but feel suddenly protective of it – it’s done nothing wrong, it didn’t ask for any of this shit. I can’t just abandon it now. “I’m not leaving it behind. No way.”</p><p class="western">“Elle, listen, <em>please</em> – BB’s functions are to detect BT’s and they do that by being exposed to stressful environments like being, oh, I don’t know, <em>surrounded by BT’s?! </em>They’re meant to alert whoever’s hooked into them by literally showing their distress, that’s how they work!”</p><p class="western">I pause halfway down the hallway, and look down at the pod in my arms. Now that it’s been unhooked from the incubator, the BB has stopped crying completely, and although the pod is veiled, there’s a flashing red text glowing around the base of the pods’ glass.</p><p class="western">“What does...what’s ‘Auto...tox-ee-mia Imminent’ mean?” I ask, sounding out the word as it flashes up at me in the gloom.</p><p class="western">“Autotoxemia? The BB’s stress levels are too high, so it’s practically useless,” Echo says. “Meaning it won’t function properly to detect BT’s – whilst that’s not great news for the BB, it might just be what you need to get out alive. With it inactive, it won’t make too much noise.”</p><p class="western">“Oh...will it be okay?” I tap at the glass, and the veil fades down halfway, the baby inside looking exhausted as it floats in its casing. “It looks like shit.”</p><p class="western">“We’ll have to see if we can find you an old BRIDGES safe house that’s not been pinged by Pandora, maybe if it’s still functioning the incubator inside will be able to bring the BB back into normal levels. You focus on getting your ass out of there safely, hey? I’ll see what I can find.” Echo says, their voice sounding a little strained. “See you on the other side?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah,” I nod to myself, readjusting the pod so it’s tucked under one arm. “See you on the other side.”</p><p class="western">Wishing I had my pack with me to stow the pod in for safe keeping, I resign to tucking the pod back under my arm and move as carefully as I dare back through the blast hole in the wall where I’d entered. The BT’s that had been drifting close by have floated away, and I manage to get away from the hospital relatively easily. Once back on the ruined main street heading for the settlement’s walls, I find myself almost breaking into a jog through the rain – only to stumble straight into the first BT I’d encountered.</p><p class="western">It’s too fast for me to backpedal, and before I can stop myself I’d yelped in surprise as the thing swings at me, handprints speeding across the ground towards me and a ghostly, tar-slicked hand reaching up to catch me around the ankle.</p><p class="western">“Fuck!”</p><p class="western">I nearly drop the BB pod in my shock, stumbling backwards and trying to yank myself free. More and more hands are reaching up, the wails of the BT’s growing louder and filling my ears. I curse as I’m pulled over, before the spectral figure of the BT launches itself at me, and I’m suddenly hit with a wave of freezing air as it pulls me completely off my feet. Crying out as I’m dragged through a deepening and quickly spreading ocean of tar, I scramble with the cords of the BB’s pod, desperately clinging to them. I can’t lose the BB, not when I just risked my ass to rescue it – I’m clinging to the end of one cord, with the trance connection plug scratching across my hand as the BT let’s go. Dropping me, it launches out of the tar, morphing into a giant monster that looks like something straight out of a nightmare.</p><p class="western">Tar pours from its very being, and it screeches at me with a mouth of tentacles, rows and rows of bone-white teeth protruding from a secondary set of mandibles. It looks like a cross between a polar-bear and a sea slug, thick barbed spines forming a ridge down its spine as it crawls from the sludge. Timefall tips from the sky in torrents, even harder than when I’d first entered the settlement.</p><p class="western">Tears pour from my eyes as my ears pop with the atmospheric shift, and I desperately backpedal away from the BT, the BB pod slipping from my hands and splashing in the silty wet muck that swims up around my knees.</p><p class="western">“Shitohshitohshit – ” I scramble to pick the pod back up as I make for the farthest edge of the tar pit from the monstrous creature. It roars after me with so much force that the tar ripples and shudders around me.</p><p class="western">I look down at the BB pod, wondering if it’s really worth getting swallowed by a Beached Thing for, when I realize that the jumpsuit I’m wearing has a harness clipped to the front – of course. A BB harness. Cursing my current situation and my own stupidity, I quickly slot the slimy, Chiralium-soaked pod into the harness, and before I register what the hell I’m doing, I jam the trance connection plug into the socket at the side of my suit. There’s a sharp pain in my side like a set of prongs jabbing into my belly, and the Bridge-Baby gurgles and whines as it activates. The pod unveils and glows an unhealthy red, but the fetus inside it blinks up at me and reaches up, touching the glass.</p><p class="western">As our eyes meet, I’m hit with several dozen flashes all at once – images of the Beach, blackened shores and dark skies, a hundred faces and places I don’t recognise, a glance from <em>within</em> the BB pod from it’s own perspective, and my stomach lurches as tears streak down my face again.</p><p class="western">But just like that, we’re connected, and I’m brought back to reality as the Beached Thing roars again, standing up on it’s hind legs before crashing down and sending a shock wave hard enough to make me stumble. With my hands now free, I struggle my way to a floating piece of rubble that appears from beneath the tar, hauling myself up and onto it. From there, I’m able to climb onto a higher wall, trying to ignore the distressed noises of the BB on my chest.</p><p class="western">“I know, I know – ” I risk a look behind me, only to see the BT vanishing, diving back into the endless sea of tar. “Ah, fuck.”</p><p class="western">Seconds later, it launches skywards, breaking through the tar and rubble meters ahead of me, swiping at me with paws so big they’re each the size of a car. With a yell, I stumble back, tumbling backwards down the masonry and landing back in the tar, the BT stalking towards me, dragging itself over the rubble with it’s mouth hanging open as it howls.</p><p class="western">Scrambling up, I wade as fast as I can in the opposite direction, completely lost as to where I am, hoping I’m heading towards the edge of the settlement area in general. Suddenly, there’s a yell from somewhere ahead of me, and I look up to see Valentine, clad in a Timefall-resistant poncho that flaps in the wind and her hands thrown skywards, at the top of the slope.</p><p class="western">I struggle towards her, waving my arms frantically to try and get her to turn and get away, but as she reaches upwards as high as she can, I feel the rain overhead lessening as the sky begins to lighten. The Beached Thing behind me screams and slams its full weight into the tar, sending me stumbling forwards and landing on my knees. But Valentine doesn’t let up, and as I crawl towards her the rain gets less and less until the monster shakes itself and howls, before diving back into the quickly receding tar. Dead sea life litter the ground as the spectre of the BT that had grabbed me floats high above us, disappearing into the sky, but seconds later, the Timefall has stopped and the world begins to look like it did before.</p><p class="western">“Holy shit,” I gasp for breath as I push myself up, my body aching with every movement. I look up at Valentine, rolling down to meet me. “Holy shit! You were amazing!”</p><p class="western">“And just as well I suspected a child would go running into danger,” she chides, pulling down the hood of her poncho. “I only realized you had gone after the BT’s stopped making so much noise.”</p><p class="western">“Yeah,” I pant, looking down and patting the top of the BB pod. “Found what was making them so crazy. It’s not exactly in good shape, though.”</p><p class="western">Valentine stares at the pod, agape. “A Bridge-Baby? My God...what were you <em>thinking</em>?”</p><p class="western">“I guess...I guess I wasn’t,” I reply. “I was just trying to help.”</p><p class="western">She looks like she wants to chide me more, to yell and rant about how much danger I put myself in, the way I’m sure Deadman or Fragile would have had no problem doing, but after a moment, she just sighs and shakes her head.</p><p class="western">“Well...you most certainly did. Helped more than one of us, anyhow,” she says, eyeing the pod. I can’t tell if her expression is one of curiosity or disgust, but she turns and wheels away, heading back up the slope. “Come on then. You need a shower. You’re absolutely covered in Chiralium.”</p><p class="western">I watch her for a moment as she leaves, before casting my eyes back to the ruins of the settlement town behind us. The place is quiet now, free of Timefall and BT’s for a time, anyhow. There’s a small noise from my chest as the BB pod unveils, and I glance down to see the BB also looking out. It blinks up at me tiredly with dull eyes, and I try to offer it a small smile, before the pod’s veil covers it over again. I hope Echo can find somewhere to look after it, it’d be a shame to lose it after it’s come so far.</p><p class="western">“Are you coming?” Valentine’s voice drifts down to me from where she’s perched at the top of the slope, and I let out a breath as I turn, willing my aching legs to carry me up to her. The idea of a shower is irresistible, and it’s the only thing that keeps my knees from completely giving out as I climb the slope.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Valentine lets me use her shelters shower, and her bathroom is full of potted ferns and a large, open shower with a large claw-looking device that I realize after a few minutes of exhausted confusion is actually a mechanism that must hold her up as she bathes. I try not to picture it too much as I scrub the Chiralium from my skin.</p><p class="western">When I step out of the shower, feeling far better now that I’m warm and clean, I discover my freshly decontaminated and cleaned jumpsuit folded neatly on a stool just outside of the door, along with a newly printed tank top and underwear. I dress quickly before examining myself in the mirror over the sink. The handprint stencil is still there, marred across my face, and I frown at my reflection.</p><p class="western">“Guess that’s never going away,” I murmur as I rub a finger at the edges of the mark halfheartedly. I wonder if Pandora saw it, if it will make me stand out in a crowd enough to be recognised. I run my hands through my hair and pull it into a rough ponytail as I consider having to find myself a mask to cover my face, just on the off chance. I pause, pulling at the ends of my ponytail. It almost looks like my hair has grown another two inches since the last time Deadman was tugging on it. “Great. Guess the tweaked medication isn’t working quite as great as Deadman hoped, either.”</p><p class="western">Leaving the bathroom, I pad down the quiet hallways barefoot, finding Valentine in a large study. The walls are lined with terrariums of every shape and size; some of the glass casings are as tall as I am, stretching halfway across the room and the plants within creating miniature forests. Others decorate shelves and are smaller than even the Bridge Baby pod, which now sits on a desk next to Valentine as she works.</p><p class="western">“Thanks for the shower, and for cleaning my stuff,” I say a little awkwardly, standing at the top of a small ramp that leads down to the main area of the lab. Valentine turns to me, and offers me a tired smile.</p><p class="western">“I figured I’d wait up for you, show you where you can rest for the night,” she says, before reaching over and tapping the BB’s pod. “But someone else is already out for the count. Poor thing. The more I think about it, the more I think you did the right thing, despite the danger you put yourself in.”</p><p class="western">I step down into the lab as she leaves her work desk and rolls across the white linoleum floor over to a chiral screen.</p><p class="western">“I couldn’t leave it there,” I say softly as I pass the pod, eyeing the cords that lie next to it. When Valentine and I had unhooked it, we’d discovered that there was indeed a secondary plug in the socket of my suit, one that had stabbed into my side to initiate the trance connection that linked the BB and me. Removable of the prongs from my skin had been painful – I can’t imagine how Corey could do it, day in and out. “It might just be considered a tool by most people...but it would’ve been like abandoning a real baby, you know?”</p><p class="western">“Oh trust me, I do,” Valentine nods severely as I follow her towards the screen, where she pulls up a series of images. “I feel like I owe you an explanation. You went out of your way to help me and that BB, without even knowing the real reasons why I was so adamant that I couldn’t help you in return.”</p><p class="western">“We’re practically strangers, there’s no reason for you to have trusted me. I could’ve just been another Porter trying to get you to join the UCA,” I shrug. “Besides, you said something about the first BRIDGES Expedition leaving you behind, so I kinda guessed you haven’t had an easy history with BRIDGES.”</p><p class="western">Valentine smiles sadly.</p><p class="western">“I was a part of BRIDGES I, the first expedition headed west to try and reconnect America from coast to coast thirteen years ago,” she says softly, and points at the images on the screen. They show a troupe of large military issue vehicles travelling, along with photos of campsites and small parties of people gathered together surrounded by machinery. “BRIDGES was to create a shining future of union across our fractured nation. It was all very noble and heroic, everyone was eager to do their part.”</p><p class="western">My eyes follow her finger as she points towards one photo, which shows Valentine standing in amongst a group of others; a young androgynous looking man, a woman with pale blonde hair about Valentine’s age, a young man who looks like he’s barely out of his teens, and a man with bronze skin and long, black hair tied in a braid. They’ve all got their arms around each other, all smiling and giving the camera a thumbs-up. Another photo shows Valentine squatting with a young woman with the same dark curly hair as her, next to a nest of coral, several cryptobiotes floating around them. Valentine looks years younger – there’s no tension in her shoulders and she still has her legs, a detail I realise has me glancing down at her now wheelchair-bound state. The bandaged stumps of her lost limbs has me swallowing quickly and looking back at the screen.</p><p class="western">“What...what happened?” I ask quietly, and Valentine sighs.</p><p class="western">“We were lead by Amelie, or as she was officially known, Samantha America Strand, the Vice President of the United States,” Valentine continues. “She was our fearless leader, believing that we were capable of anything. She found us shelter from Timefall and guided our expedition around the worst of the BT territories – but despite her DOOMS, she couldn’t predict the separatist attacks. Our troupe was hit by a group of terrorists, and though she was able to guide us out of the worst of the attacks, there were some of us who were badly injured…some even killed in the attack.”</p><p class="western">She flicks her wrist, and the screen changes to show more photos. Some of crude grave markers back-lit by huge bonfires, the dark sky above filled with blackened smoke clouds glittering with chiralium, some photos showing infirmary tents with several people laid up in cots, heavily bandaged and medics moving between them. A photo at the bottom showed the two younger men from the first photo kneeling by the side of a cot whilst the older man stands at the end; and I realise with a jolt that the person in the cot is actually Valentine herself – her face mostly obscured by an oxygen mask and bandages wrapped down her arms.</p><p class="western">“I was in one of the research stations when the attack happened; there was gunfire and bangs from grenades outside...my daughter...” Valentine brings up one of the previous photos – the one of her with the young woman squatting next to the cryptobiote next. “When the separatists stormed our station, they tossed a grenade in first to clear the way. I saw it from the corner of my eye, and I didn’t think. I just threw myself at my daughter, trying to shield her. I blacked out from the blast, and when I woke up we were miles away, set up in an infirmary. They told me she’d been shot, murdered, and that I was assumed already dead from the loss of my legs. But Amelie...she came back for me. She had my injuries treated and one of our technical engineers, Malingen, custom-designed me this chair.”</p><p class="western">“I’m sorry,” I murmur as Valentine pauses, her eyes on the photo of her and her daughter. They look so happy together. She takes a deep breath.</p><p class="western">“So was I. I developed DOOMS after my close brush with death, began dreaming of the Beach. It got so bad that my recovery faltered, and the expedition had to keep moving without me. I begged Amelie...don’t leave me behind. I begged her,” Valentine whispers. “And she made me stay here. She promised she would return, she’d come back. That town out there...it was our original recovery point after the attack; I was left behind with a small team of BRIDGES members, and we built and established the whole place. But I couldn’t stay there...yet I couldn’t go too far from it, either. So on Amelie’s direction, I was allowed my own lab here. I was to continue my research...for the betterment of absolutely no one. It took me several years to realize that she was never coming back. That I was researching Timefall and how it effected the flora of the post-Stranding world for nothing.”</p><p class="western">There’s a long silence between us as one last photo comes up, a photo showing Valentine in her new wheelchair, sitting among a small crew of sad crew of BRIDGES I members, and amongst the faces of strangers, there’s one that I recognise.</p><p class="western">“Hey...Isn’t that…?” I point out the young woman, brown hair pulled into a ponytail and large, circular rimmed glasses framing her face. My mind goes back to the security feed of President Die-Hardman’s execution, and the woman in Heartman’s arms, screaming in anguish. “I saw this woman...in Capital Knot, on the night Pandora attacked. But she didn’t have glasses.”</p><p class="western">“That’s Malingen, in that photo, the engineer who made my chair,” Valentine says quietly. “You’d be thinking of her twin sister, Lockne. They were both members of BRIDGES I, but Malingen was part of the first troupe – her sister was sent north with the second troupe to establish a base of operations in Mountain Knot.”</p><p class="western">The name Malingen rings a bell, too – I recall Deadman mentioning her, saying how she’d been collecting samples of Sam Porter Bridges blood to synthesize hematic weaponry.</p><p class="western">“Small world,” I murmur as Valentine twists her wrist again, and the chiralgram goes dark.</p><p class="western">“Indeed,” she nods, turning her chair to face me. “And there you have it, you know my reservations for anything BRIDGES related. I was discarded by Amelie after I became too much of an issue to manage as a part of the expedition.”</p><p class="western">“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I try to swallow back the hard feeling in my chest, but she waves me away.</p><p class="western">“The truth is, now I can think clearly without all that noise ringing in my ears, I don’t think I want others to be left behind like I was,” she says. “So tonight, let’s get some sleep. And tomorrow, I’ll make a strand with you, and I’ll help you as much as I can to take back the UCA from the Homo Libertas and this Pandora woman. She sounds like a right piece of work.”</p><p class="western">I can’t help but smile, relief washing over me.</p><p class="western">“Thank you, I really mean it,” I reply, and she offers me her hand. I take it and walk by her side as she rolls up and out of her lab, scooping up the BB pod in my free arm as we go. Her hand is warm, the skin soft and lined with age. A life lived, and survived.</p><p class="western">She shows me to a small, spare bedroom that’s simply designed with a bunk and not much else, but there are blankets folded at one end, and I set the Bridge Baby pod on the side table before sinking gratefully onto the cushioned mattress, pulling up the blankets to my chin. My body feels so heavy, so tired and sore, and I can feel sleep coming quickly. I watch the dim red glow of the pod on the night stand, and I hope the baby within it will be all right in it’s suspended state until I can find an incubator to connect it up to.</p><p class="western">Hopefully Echo will find something soon. I’m asleep not long after that, not even able to bring myself to wait up until the Chiral Network comes online to receive word from Deadman or Fragile. If they do send word, surely it’ll be there for me in the morning.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">I sleep deeply in my exhaustion, but even the deepest sleep won’t stop me from ending up on the Beach in my dreams. It’s not often I get to sleep without any interruption, so I’m not entirely surprised when I wake up feeling the chill of the sea air tickling across my skin. Opening my eyes I hazily stare out at the shoreline, slowly realising what I first thought was a large, upright rock is in fact a person, sitting in the sand right at the waters edge.</p><p class="western">I push myself up and move slowly, sluggishly, like my feet aren’t quite awake yet. As I get closer I can make out some features of the figure; short, chopped hair and a dark green jumpsuit reminiscent of a Porter’s attire.</p><p class="western">“There you are,” it’s a man, and he turns to face me slowly. His eyes are ringed by darkened circle, and there’s tar smeared across scarring above his brows. He juts his pointed chin at me. “Ain’t seen you in a long time kid.”</p><p class="western">I look behind me, thinking he’s looking past me, before realizing he’s actually addressing <em>me</em>.</p><p class="western">“Me?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah, you. Been so long. Long long time,” he smiles with pointed canines. “How long? <em>Soooo</em> long. Time is just a construct, reality is a myth, yadda yadda.”</p><p class="western">His eyes grow quickly bored and he turns back to stare out at the endless sea before us, and I kneel down next to him. The more I look at it, his outfit looks more military than Porter, with several pouches lining the vest and faded, mottled green camouflage patterns winding down his sleeves. He reminds me vaguely of the troops that attacked East Knot under Pandora’s command.</p><p class="western">“How...how do you know me?” I ask carefully, and he chuckles. His voice is deep, and kind of gruff for a man with such a narrow face.</p><p class="western">“We go way back, you ‘n me,” he drawls. “Back to before we both got abandoned. Remember this?”</p><p class="western">He taps at something on his sternum, and I look down to see the bottom half of a Bridge Baby pod slotted into the harness on his chest – the top half of the pod, the glass part, is missing and there’s stains of amniotic fluid over the front of his vest.</p><p class="western">Before I can respond, there’s a sound that pierces the silence around us like howl of that monstrous BT I faced, and he looks over his shoulder with a sigh.</p><p class="western">“Ah shit,” he mutters, hauling me up with a hand under my elbow as he climbs to his feet. “This again.”</p><p class="western">“What’s...what’s happening?” I ask, feeling my heart thudding painfully in my throat. Everything suddenly feels a lot colder, and something in the back of my mind is starting to consider running. But run where? “What’s going on, who <em>are</em> you?”</p><p class="western">He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders before giving me a lopsided grin.</p><p class="western">“You better wake up, baby,” he says as a shadow falls over a distant mountain – no, not a shadow, but coils of black smoke. They come rumbling down the jagged cliff faces towards us, roars like thunder and dark tendrils leaping ahead of the growing entity. “Better wake up before you forget how to. I’ll see you round – here, this is a surprise tool that’ll help you later.”</p><p class="western">With that, he reaches out and gives me a hard shove – I cry out as I fall backwards into the surf, but instead of hitting the sandy bottom underneath, I’m plunged straight into the depths of the ocean. Opening my eyes as I flail uselessly in the water, there’s a muffled booming roar from above, and a dark shape leaps over the surface, its looming shadow passing over the top of me before disappearing as I sink further and further.</p><p class="western">Everything goes dark, and I’m not sure if I passed out from the pressure building in my ears or having to have hold my breath, but when I wake I’m gasping and flailing around in the darkness of Valentine’s spare room, my arms and legs tangled in the blankets and sweat beading across my skin. There’s a dim light from the window casting a soft light over the room, and as I try to slow my breathing I roll over and check on the BB pod. Still the same, undisturbed by my nightmare. I check my cuffs – two thirty AM, and four missed messages; one from Deadman, one from Fragile, two from Echo. I twist my wrist to turn the cuffs dark again – I’ll get back to the messages in the morning.</p><p class="western">Fragile... as I try to settle back down, staring up at the ceiling. It occurs to me that this isn’t the first time I’ve heard that mans voice – I’d heard it before, when I’d dreamt of Fragile on the Beach with a man holding a crying baby. It’s the same guy – it has to be.</p><p class="western">“So who the fuck is he?”</p><p class="western">My whispered question goes unanswered, and I slowly feel myself drifting back to sleep, praying that I don’t fall back into any more nightmares. I wonder, briefly, if Valentine is able to rest peacefully for the first time in a long time.</p><p class="western">I hope so.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>aaaaaahhh okay so this one's a bit late but! I'm happy with how it's come out. Please leave a comment, let me know if you're enjoying the story so far - i have so many ideas and so little time to get them all down. But i'm working hard on it, i promise.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Pieces of the People We Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle is reunited with an old friend, makes some interesting discoveries about herself, and makes a new friend on the other side of it all.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">I don’t think I’ve slept so soundly for so long in ages, but when I wake I feel like refreshed and yet...still exhausted. My whole body aches and complains every time I move, and my feet feel like lead as I sit up in bed. The darkened BB pod catches my eye first, and when I knock gently on the glass there’s no answer.</p><p class="western">Hopefully the little guy is okay.</p><p class="western">I check my cufflinks as I pull my jumpsuit back on, along with one of the many pairs of thick woollen socks that got stuffed into the very bottom of my pack – now I know why one of Fragile’s Porters gave them to me; just thinking about putting my boots back on hurts. The small pop up chiralgram above my wrists blinks with the notifications of my missed messages, all audio files.</p><p class="western">Tapping open the first one, Fragile’s profile appears.</p><p class="western">“Elle, shoot me back a message when you receive this so I know you haven’t gone and died on us. I heard from Echo that you discovered a still-mother lab in a decimated hospital not far from the first DOOMS prepper’s shelter. I pulled out the old records from the second expedition, as there were a number of safe houses built across the Central Region that have BB Incubators installed within them, in hopes I could find one that’s not been touched by Pandora just yet. Good news is, it looks like I’ve found one that’s still active and hasn’t been tagged by the Homo Libertas. Better news is that it’s on your way south west towards your next target once you’ve created a strand with the first prepper you were sent to. The only downside...is that the safe is registered under the ID of Sam Porter Bridges, and with the Chiral Network down twenty-three hours of the day, it’s unlikely you’d be able to gain public access to it until the Network is brought online again.” There’s a long pause followed by a sigh. “And that might be too long a wait if we’re going to try and help this Bridge Baby you rescued. So as soon as you reach the area, ping me and I’ll try and meet you there to bring you a private activation key. I haven’t jumped since East Knot, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to slip by under Pandora’s radar. But be sure not to contact me unnecessarily beforehand – we’ve got Gardnos crawling all over Port Knot setting up some kind of perimeter and if there’s too much disturbance across the Beach we might trip some alarms. I’m going to help you as best I can, but I have to be careful.”</p><p class="western">The chiralgram with her face disappears, and the next one follows, tagged from Echo. There’s no profile image on the chiralgram this time.</p><p class="western">“Hey Elle, hope you got out of that place okay. Your stats are looking okay even after that huge spike so I’m guessing you made it out all right. Have you been able to strand with Valentine yet? I’ve sent word to Fragile about finding a safe house where you can get that Bridge Baby back in working condition, providing there’s a still-mother connected on the other end to receive it. Once you’ve made a strand with Valentine, you’re going to have to get back on the road as soon as you can, there’s reports pinging across our sub-network that the Chiralium density around Capital Knot is growing fast, meaning that those Pandora has killed have either gone necro and become BT’s, or someone’s out there burning them. Neither of which is very good in general. I’ve sent you the location of the next prepper you’re looking for to your cuffs, he’s way south-west, just beyond South Knot, so it’s going to be a fair hike. Travel safely, Elle.”</p><p class="western">I shove my feet into my boots without lacing them up, staring at the floor as the next chiralgram pops up after Echo’s message closes.</p><p class="western">This time, Deadman’s voice comes from my cuffs, and my heart squeezes sadly. I can’t believe just how much I miss him; I’d only really met him in person a dozen or so times. All our other interactions had been via chiralgram. And it’s not as if we were ever really close, but he’d always been a far more comforting presence than any of the other doctors I’d had to deal with during my time in quarantine.</p><p class="western">“Elle, it’s me. I’m hoping you’re just sleeping, because it’s not like you to miss a call. In any case, hopefully you’re all right. I’m a little worse for wear, sadly. Pandora’s been paying each of us visits in our locked rooms, and today she came to me. She knows, Elle. She <em>knows</em> I helped you escape. Please, don’t hate me, but she made me talk, made me give her your file. I’m not proud of having to give you up like this...I’m so sorry…” there’s pain in Deadman’s strained voice, which sets off something in my stomach, and I suddenly feel an anger so sharp and so powerful all I want to do is march right back to Capital Knot and punch Pandora in the face. “But you can’t let this stop you, you’ve got to keep pushing forwards Elle, now more than ever. Echo updated me that you’d found the first DOOMS sufferer on the list, so things on your end are looking up at least. Keep on keeping on, Elle, and please, <em>please</em> stay safe.”</p><p class="western">When his voice disappears, I don’t even register as the second message from Echo automatically starts playing. All I can think about is Deadman. I don’t want to know how hard Pandora would have had to press him for information, but I silently pray he’s not badly hurt. Echo’s voice plays in the background, saying something about the train line as a mode of transport, but I hardly hear them.</p><p class="western">I make the bed up as neatly as I can before gathering all my stuff together and stuffing it all into my pack, popping my meds and hooking the BB pod under my arm before checking I’ve got everything. I head down out and down the hallway, where I find Valentine already up, rolling around her kitchen with her wheelchair’s extendables stretched upwards to form a tee-pee shape under her seat to prop her up to relative standing height. Her long dark hair is pinned up in a loose bun with a clip that has a large, decorative rose in the middle, and even though there are still circles under her eyes, she looks much more vibrant and awake today.</p><p class="western">“Rough night?” she says as she spots me. “I heard you crying in your sleep a few times. Everything all right?”</p><p class="western">I rub my face a little self consciously as I sit my pack down.</p><p class="western">“Uh, yeah. It happens.” I mumble, still thinking about Deadman.</p><p class="western">“You never told me what level of DOOMS you have, Elle,” she continues. She’s got a large flat tray on the bench in front of her, several handfuls worth of seeds spread out across the trays surface. She breathes out slowly and closes her eyes, lifting a hand. The air becomes colder, and tiny droplets of Timefall drip from the space above the tray onto the seeds. They sprout quickly, blooming and growing into a patch of alfalfa sprouts that quickly take up all the room on the tray. Valentine lowers her hand and wipes a chiral tear from her cheek before looking down at her work, her expression happily surprised. “Hmm. That’s a much better result than I expected.”</p><p class="western">“You’re trying to localise where the Timefall will fall?” I ask, approaching the other side of the counter. Valentine nods.</p><p class="western">“Amelie told me before she and the rest of BRIDGES I left, after I’d started developing these abilities, that with practice I could do just about anything. Grow anything, replenish soils, keep storms at bay. I’d refined it enough that most larger plants thrive under just a little bit, but even a little bit of Timefall is often too much for smaller seedlings.” She replies. “Amelie said that she believed I had about a level three DOOMS, which isn’t very powerful overall.”</p><p class="western">I pluck one of the little sprouts from the tray, twirling it back and forth between my fingers. To think seconds ago it was just a seed, now it’s a bright green little stalk of plant life.</p><p class="western">“Seems pretty powerful to me,” I reply. “After all, you stopped that storm to help me yesterday. Sent that Beached Thing back to wherever it came from.”</p><p class="western">“Indeed. Which is why I’m now curious about your own abilities,” Valentine rolls her wheelchair over to a corner of the bench where two cups sit, along with an electric kettle. “If you yourself didn’t have some sort of DOOMS, there would have been a voidout when that BT touched you.”</p><p class="western">Watching as she sets about making us tea, I mull it over for a moment. Once again, I’m thinking of Deadman – how he’d been excited to find out that I really did have some higher level of DOOMS than first thought.</p><p class="western">“I don’t actually know what my level is,” I look at my hands, turning the sprout over and over before setting it back onto the tray. “I can see and hear the BT’s, and I can sense Timefall before it comes. But I don’t know what else I’m capable of. I didn’t even know I could do<em> that much</em> until almost a week ago now.”</p><p class="western">“So this is all new to you, then.”</p><p class="western">“Kinda, yeah.”</p><p class="western">Valentine sets a steaming hot cup of tea in front of me, holding up a hand to stop me as I go to take it. She slowly makes a loose fist over the top of the cup, as if gingerly wringing a wet washcloth, and a few drops of Timefall splash into the cup. The brew’s scent gets more potent, and Valentine smiles through another chiral tear.</p><p class="western">“You’ve given me a shred of hope, Elle, after years of feeling like my work was for nothing but having nothing else to really<em> do </em>with it<em>.</em> So now I’m experimenting a little bit. Try the tea now, it should be a stronger flavour now.” She says, and I take the cup to sip slowly. It’s even better than the one she served me yesterday. “It’s not going to be an easy road ahead, I’m still fighting my own mental health, but there’s something about you and your mission that makes me want to be tangibly better. And I suppose the best place to start is with a strand. Get us connected and all.”</p><p class="western">She reaches for my hand across the counter.</p><p class="western">“Have you ever made a strand before?” I ask as I hesitate to put my hand in hers. “Because I haven’t, and I have no clue how to.”</p><p class="western">“You bear the micanga bracelet of Fragile Express, from the CEO herself no doubt,” Valentine remarks, tapping the blue and white corded band around my wrist. “That’s a part of her she’s given to you, and so you two are connected. That’s enough to form a strand if both participants are open to it.”</p><p class="western">“Okay then...” I let her take both my hands, and she motions for me to close my eyes. With my eyes shut, I can feel her gently squeeze my fingers, before she let’s go with one hand. She murmurs something that sounds like a poem under her breath, and then turns my hands over so they’re palm up.</p><p class="western">There’s a quiet <em>click</em> from her side of the counter, and then she’s pressing something soft into my hands, folding my fingers over it. She finishes murmuring the verse, and then sighs. “I think that’s all we need to do. Haven’t forged a strand in a long time.”</p><p class="western">Opening my eyes, I look down at what she’s given me; it’s the big red rose hairpin that was bundling her hair up, which now falls in graceful tumbles down her shoulders. It’s a soft fabric weave that folds and winds in on itself, again and again to form the petals of the flower – a short silver plate acts as the backing with a secondary, folded narrower piece acting as the ‘pin’, and there’s a couple of small silver chains that dangle from it.</p><p class="western">“You’re...giving me this?”</p><p class="western">“Think of it like the micanga, or that pendant you wear,” Valentine says, nodding at the chunk of metal hanging around my neck. “They’re important tokens from people important to you. I used a verse from an old family prayer, to ask that you be given protection and guidance on your journey, because now whether you like it or not, you’re now an important knot in this strand. Between you and I, between you and those you’re searching for, and those you’re trying to get help for. The material is more Timefall resistant, so it won’t immediately crumble in the rain, but even if it eventually does, the strand between us will remain.”</p><p class="western">“Thank you,” I mumble, not quite sure what else to say. It doesn’t feel very different, but I suppose that it didn’t feel any different when Fragile gave me her micanga. I think of the pendant, and wonder briefly if I’ve always had it or if someone actually gave it to me. I wonder if I might still be stranded to them.</p><p class="western">I can’t take my eyes of the rose in my hands. It’s beautiful, one of the first truly pretty things I’ve ever seen or considered decorative. Almost every item I’ve seen or used in BRIDGES has had a material, tangible function. The cuffs, the terminals, the PCC’s...there’s never been anything to make them look pretty or personalised. I don’t really know what to do with it, because it’s not like I’d wear it in my hair or anything myself, but as I’m looking around I spot my pack. Kneeling down, I attach the rose to the top of my pack, where it won’t get in the way of any buckles or zips. Valentine smiles approvingly from over her own cup of tea.</p><p class="western">She insists that I stay to finish my tea, but I make my farewells shortly after. Valentine shows me out, and I slot the BB pod into the harness and tie my laces before we bid each other goodbye in the morning sunlight outside of her shelter home. I promise that I’ll pass on her shelter ID to Echo, so they can get back in touch, and although Valentine’s hesitant at the idea first off, she accepts. Dew makes the sparse tufts of grass and closer shine as I wave to her on my way out, and her smile is sort of sad, almost making me want to stay a little longer. She seemed so lonely there all by herself, but considering how far I’ve still got to go, I can’t afford to spend more time here.</p><p class="western">I’m almost up and over the crest from where I’d first spotted her shelter yesterday morning, when I notice that the tangles of dead trees that ring the area have got tiny dots of green across some of the branches. Leaning closer, I realize I’m looking at new leaf buds, getting ready to grow. In time, I can just imagine this place as a forest as green and lush as those that thrive in Valentine’s terrariums in her study.</p><p class="western">My cufflinks show my next destination on the map, with a rough estimate of six days of walking.</p><p class="western">“Yeah, I ain’t walking that whole way,” I mutter to myself as I begin retracing my steps back in the general direction of the Railway. If I’m lucky, I can just train-hop the majority of my journey around the continent – at least as far as the train line runs. On my way, I send a brief message to Fragile, confirming I am indeed alive, and one to Deadman, just so he doesn’t feel like I’ve abandoned him. He’ll most likely get it tonight when the Network goes online again, but at least it will be there waiting for him, even if I don’t get the chance to speak with him personally.</p><p class="western">An hour or so later, I’m back in the general perimeter of the voidout crater, and I try to breathe through the shivers that run up and down my spine as the debris twirls up into the sky from its edges. There’s only a narrow track between the edges of the crater and the slope of the hillside, and I take a moment to watch the anti-gravitational effect of where the Beach towards this world, but something across the other side of the crater catches my eye.</p><p class="western">A truck. It’s just sitting there, as if abandoned, but suddenly its lights blinks and the tyres spin in the dirt. It pulls back a little, before charging around the edge of the crater.</p><p class="western"><em>Ah shit</em>.</p><p class="western">I don’t wait to find out if it’s MULES or the Homo Libertas or even the Gardnos, I just turn in the other direction and leg it. Every inch of my body hurts and complains as I run, my pack bouncing off the small of my back with every stride. I might have slept well but I am sure as hell not recovered from my run-in with that monster BT from yesterday. I scramble up the rocks that dot the slope uphill, figuring if I can get high enough to hide among the massive boulders and outcrops, I might lose them before they think about pursuing me further. In moments the truck is rumbling around the side of the crater towards me, and I stumble and grasp at tufts of grass and rocks as I climb.</p><p class="western">I manage to slip between two big rocks, and pause a second to catch my breath. Peeking back down the slope, my heart sinks as I see the truck pull up not far from where I’d been standing, and the men inside are already jumping out and heading up the slope after me.</p><p class="western">“Shit,” I swallow back the rising fear in my throat and keep going, coming across a long stretch of rope hanging down the side of the cliff face beside me. A climbing anchor, left by a Porter – I tug the rope quickly to test if it’ll hold me, before hauling myself up, scrambling up the side of the hill as fast as my aching arms and legs can carry me. After a while, I’m cresting the top of the hillside where it starts to plateau, and I force my feet forwards back into a jog, hearing their yells from behind me echoing off the rocks, only to run face-first into someone who simply steps into existence before me in a flash of light. I yelp as I fall back on my butt, and for a moment their silhouette blocks out the sun, before they reach down and grab me by the collar.</p><p class="western">“Little runaway, I’ve finally found you,” a soft voice croons, and a shiver runs through me as her face comes into view. She tugs down the mask covering the lower half of her face, and Pandora grins toothily at me.</p><p class="western">“Let go!” my voice is a terrified cough as her grip tightens, and she almost lifts me clean off the ground. “I said <em>let go!</em>”</p><p class="western">“Uh-uh-uh,” Pandora bats away my hands as I try to pry her fingers loose. “Hold on a second, girl. I need a word with you.”</p><p class="western">She finally lets me go, dropping me into the dirt. Winded, I sit there dumbly as her men are starting to come over the top of the hill as well, surrounding us in a semi-circle.</p><p class="western">“I paid your favourite coroner a visit yesterday, and do you know what he told me?” Pandora stalks slowly around me, her bright platinum mohawk of hair shining like a halo in the sun – it’s a glaring contrast to the dark of her garb, all armour plates and camouflage colours. Up this close, her eyes are a hard, steely blue. “He told me a few little secrets, so I thought I’d share a few fun little secrets with you, too.”</p><p class="western">“Eat shit,” I fight the overwhelming urge to cry and beg, instead spitting into the dirt at her feet, and she raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Deadman only told you because you made him.”</p><p class="western">“I <em>am</em> very persuasive,” Pandora chuckles. “I’ve been learning many new things, you see. It always pays to do your research when you want to bring the whole world to its knees. So with the Chiral Network entirely at my disposal, I’ve been doing some reading into the Aversion, and how the Last Stranding is, in fact, still entirely possible.”</p><p class="western">“What?” I breathe, and Pandora nods.</p><p class="western">“Oh yes. Your friend and his beloved crew of BRIDGES might have put off the Last Stranding for the time being, but walls are made to be torn down, and rules are made to be broken.” Pandora says. “And I’m looking for the one rule-breaker who can bring down the walls in my way. Turns out, it just so happens you’re looking for him, too.”</p><p class="western">The name <em>Sam Porter Bridges</em> pops into my head, but I bite my tongue from saying anything. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she takes one of the guns from her men, and slings it casually over her shoulder.</p><p class="western">“Here’s one of those juicy little secrets I promised you,” Pandora stops her circling and stands directly in front of me, using the barrel of the rifle to tilt my chin up. My heart’s pounding in my ears, but a little voice in the back of my mind says she won’t shoot – she’s playing with me. It’s like she can hear my thoughts, because she grins down at me again. “The secret is; I <em>let</em> you get away. My orders were that you be brought back alive, but then I saw that pretty little mark on your face, and I changed my mind.”</p><p class="western">I feel my cheeks flush as I think of the handprint of the BT on my face, and Pandora gives me a look of pity.</p><p class="western">“I know exactly what you are, girl. A repatriate like you can’t hide among the rest of us. And there’s so few of you out there, I consider myself very lucky to have gotten my hands on you before you go and find our dear old friend Mister Sam Bridges; who knows what he might be able to teach you about yourself.” She lowers the rifle and prods me in the chest, shoving me back onto my elbows. “So now I’m down to play something of a set of games with you. Let’s have a race, shall we? The ultimate game will be ‘Who can find America’s Saviour first’. Winner gets the pleasure of destroying the loser. No holds barred. Sound like fun?”</p><p class="western">She’s got such a strange, erratic energy about her, her eyes never changing from their cool, hard stare. It’s almost as if she’s crackling with an invisible power.</p><p class="western">“If I’m a repatriate,” I say slowly, and she lifts an eyebrow. “Then how are you planning to destroy me if I’ll just come back?”</p><p class="western">Pandora cracks a smile, like she’s pleased with me questioning her.</p><p class="western">“Well, I need a practice round before I dismantle the last standing hope of the United Cities of America, don’t I?” She sneers. “I’ll need to make sure I’ve got exactly what it takes to turn Sam Porter Bridges into the sacrificial bridge between this world and the next – a stepping stone across the lake of my retribution against the God who abandoned me, abandoned us all.”</p><p class="western">“<em>What?</em>” I breathe, but Pandora leans back and waves a hand dismissively.</p><p class="western">“But here’s the very first of these games for you. This one <em>will</em> be fun.” She says, before offering me the end of the rifle to take. When I hesitate, she raises an eyebrow, and so I wrap my hand around the barrel and let her pull me up. “This game is going to put you to the test, my little repatriate. I’ve got a vested interest in you now, to see just what you can do. You survived this far, an applaudable feat for someone who claims to have never left the confines of a city. Good thing your friends documents tell a different story, a very interesting theory that I’m keen to put to the test.”</p><p class="western">“Listen,” I croak as she turns away. “Listen, please, I’ll take your test, just please don’t kill anyone else you’ve got prisoner in Capital Knot. Don’t hurt anyone else.”</p><p class="western">“That sounds like you’re up for this little challenge,” Pandora turns back to me with a smile. “All right then.”</p><p class="western">Suddenly, she snaps away, disappearing in the same way she appeared; it reminds me of how Fragile jumps between locations using her Beach. Before I blink, Pandora reappears, but this time, she’s got someone else with her. A pale grey jumpsuit of a freelance Porter, covered in splatters of blood.</p><p class="western">“Corey!” My heart leaps into my mouth as I recognise him behind his two black eyes. He falls to his knees between us as Pandora raises her rifle to point at the back of his head with a smirk, and before I register what I’m doing, I’m at his side, grabbing his arm and wrapping an arm around him. I look up at Pandora for an instant, and her face is an ecstatic grin, but all I can think in my panicked state is<em> get away</em>, and suddenly we’re several dozen feet away. A chiral tear runs down my cheek and Corey groans at my side as I realise what I’ve just done.</p><p class="western">I try to stand, but something comes crawling up my throat and I topple over, puking my guts up into the grass. Corey falls away to my side as I retch up slimy puke that tastes like tar and sea sand, and as my heaving stomach begins to calm down I can hear the sound of Pandora laughing across the hill top from us.</p><p class="western">“Bravo, well done!” she’s clapping, like I’ve just performed a circus act. “Just what I was hoping for. But you’ll need a lot more practice to make any use of that little trick, and I’m not about to give you that chance just yet.”</p><p class="western">With that, she raises her fist to the sky and yells, and chiral clouds materialise out of nowhere as the Timefall begins to pour down. Tar floods the space between us, and I stumble to my feet, hauling Corey up and over my shoulder as liquid Chiralium swims up around our calves. I pull my hood up as the rain hits.</p><p class="western">“My only rule for this game, little repatriate, is don’t die,” Pandora calls over the rush of the storm as debris and ruined buildings begin to rise from the tar. A piercing shriek cuts through the frigid air, and a monstrous BT bursts from the tar behind her. It looks like a cross between a stingray and an octopus, with multiple tentacles thrashing from the end of its like barbed tail. It howls through a cavernous, gaping mouth at us, and I’m suddenly so much more aware of the weight of Corey against me. He doesn’t have DOOMS – if he’s caught or swallowed by the BT that’s it, this whole place will be a crater.</p><p class="western">“Shit,” I turn and bolt, dragging Corey along with me as best I can.</p><p class="western">We stumble and slog our way across the tar, and I haul us up onto an almost completely submerged buildings rooftop as old world buildings begin rising from the tar. I have to let him go and catch my breath – looking around, Pandora and her men have disappeared, but the BT is swimming through the tar like it would an ocean, breaching the surface to shriek and search for us.</p><p class="western">“Oh man we’re so fucked,” I gasp, but then Corey’s hand is on my arm.</p><p class="western">“Here,” he grunts weakly, and I look down to see him fumbling in one of his large belt pouches. “Hematic grenades. Just fuckin’ smash the bastard with them. And a chiralium knife. Don’t lose it. Please.”</p><p class="western">I tuck the large folded knife into my waistband, taking as many grenades as I can carry. I stash a bunch in each pocket of my jumpsuit before hoisting Corey up so he’s propped up against the roofs air-conditioning unit.</p><p class="western">“Don’t die on me out here okay? I’m coming back for you,” I pant, and Corey gives me a short nod.</p><p class="western">“Same goes,” he mutters, and I hop down and slosh my way back into view of the screaming monster.</p><p class="western">I yell and wave my arms to draw its attention, and it dives into the tar beneath it before launching into the air not far from me. I pull the pin on the grenade in my hand and pray this works, before flinging it as far as I can into the air. It misses and explodes against a nearby building, red vapour raining down over one of the BT’s massive fins. The thing screeches and recoils as the contents of the grenade quickly coat it, and as it flails angrily I throw another. This one lands right in the middle of it’s back, exploding on impact. The BT writhes and roars in a cloud of blood-coloured mist and then thrashes forwards, knocking into me and sending me flying.</p><p class="western">All I’m aware of is hitting the building behind me and crumbling, my head spinning and my heart pounding. The BB pod is a dead weight against my chest and all I see for a few seconds is stars. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’ve dropped the next grenade I’d pulled from my pocket, and that the BT is rallying, making a beeline for me.</p><p class="western">It splashes through the tar and whips its tail around as I’m trying to stand, and the thick tentacles that extend from its tail wrap around my legs and yank me off my feet, slinging me through the air. It slaps me down into the tar and all the air rushes from my lungs before I can even cry out. The BT hoists me back up, and the whole world goes upside down as my vision blurs.</p><p class="western">“Crap...” I groan, before realising I’m about to be this BT’s next snack. It’s opening its gaping void of a mouth and dangles me above it, and I thrash around, cursing as I try to wriggle free. The last of the hematic grenades tumble from my pockets and splash into the tar – I grasp at the knife in my belt, but in my fumbling to open the blade it slips from my grip and plunges into the tar. Fuck. Now I really am dead. I feel the dread building up inside of me, and as the thing bellows at me, covered in steaming splatters of blood-grenade, I throw my hands out in of me in a desperate bid to wave it away. It feels like something rips across the skin of my palms in long slashes, and blood springs from long cuts appearing across my hands, mixing with the tar and running down my fingers.</p><p class="western">Right before my eyes, the BT pauses, it’s attention suddenly caught by something below me rising from the tar. There’s a <em>person</em> climbing to their feet, standing in the face of this creature. Covered from head to foot in tar, they seem to turn my way, pale eyes piercing through the inky black that coats them. It’s a man, of some sort, and there are long trailing threads of dripping tar hanging from his shoulders and down his sides. Threads that trail through the tar and back up to my bleeding fingertips. I watch open-mouthed as all he does is look back at the BT, which almost seems to be studying him curiously. It bellows in his face as he steps forward and puts a finger to his lips before he reaches out and spreads his hand, dripping with Chiralium, on the BT’s face between where its eyes would be. The thing howls like a wounded animal as it reels back, its grip on my legs loosening and I yelp as I fall back into the tar, landing hard against a piece of debris. The BT seems to shudder and stiffen as the handprint he leaves on its face turns gold, before spreading quickly across its entire body, turning the whole creature into solid gold Chiralium crystal. There’s a moment of silence as the storm breaks, the clouds overhead thinning, and then the Beached Thing disintegrates completely, shards of Chiralium shattering off the crystallised body and floating upwards, leaving nothing but a pile of Chiralium crystals growing up from the ground as the tar recedes and the grass and rocks of the hill top return. The crystals sprout from the ground like the plants in Valentine’s greenhouse, twisting upwards into the shape of grasping hands reaching for the sky.</p><p class="western">The world returns to normal, as the rain stops and the tar disappears – and before the man disappears along with it, he turns back to me, raising a finger to his lips once more, and then he sinks back into the last puddles of tar. I crumple to my knees. Two BT encounters in two days...I kind of miss the days of working in the safe depths of the Distribution Centre. No BT’s, no outside world.</p><p class="western">I remember Corey, and spot him laying nearby. There’s no sign of Pandora or any of her men here anymore, so I crawl over. Gathering up the last of the hematic grenades that I’d dropped along with the knife, thankfully not swept away with the flood of liquid Chiralium, I drop them nearby as I flop into the grass next to him. My hands sting with every movement, and I examine them numbly. Several long slashes, like long shallow knife-cuts run from the heels of my hands along my palms to the base of each finger. Blood still weeps from the wounds, smearing across everything I touch. I hardly have the energy to question how the hell these cuts even happened.</p><p class="western">“You alive?” Corey grunts through a cough. I wipe a smear of Chiralium off my face and stare up at the sky.</p><p class="western">“Yeah. You?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah.”</p><p class="western">“Oh good.” I suck in deep breaths of air, content to just lie there for a moment. Then, I fumble for the knife he’d told me not to lose and had promptly lost. “Here’s your knife by the way. Turns out I’m pretty useless in a fight.”</p><p class="western">Corey huffs a faint laugh.</p><p class="western">“Keep it, might do you good.” He sighs, before slowly propping himself up on one elbow. “Thanks for saving my ass back there. She showed up in the locked room her guys had a dozen of us bottled up in, grabbed me and said I was gonna be the next example made. Thought I was dead for sure.”</p><p class="western">“It’s okay,” I mumble. “You saved my ass three and a bit years ago, now we’re even.”</p><p class="western">Corey nods slowly. One of his eyes is almost completely swollen shut, the other badly bruised. He’s taken a real beating back there...I wonder how the others are fairing. I hope Deadman’s not half as badly beaten up as Corey is.</p><p class="western">“That’s fair,” he says, before laying back down in the grass. Now the danger has passed, my limbs feel like they’ve turned to jelly and I really don’t want to move for a while. After a moment, Corey clears his throat. “We should get moving soon, right?”</p><p class="western">“In a minute,” my eyes have already fallen shut; the sun is coming through the clouds high above us and is warm on my face, and the soft swishing of the grass in the breeze around my hands feels nice. Corey makes a noise of acknowledgement, and we just take a moment to lie there and appreciate being alive.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">We rest for an hour or so, and once we’re both able to sit upright without wanting to fall back over we patch each other’s injuries. Corey slathers my hands in the ointment from my first aid kit before wrapping them gently in bandages, and I dab some of the ointment over his face in return. We toast each other with a cryptobiote each, before downing the gross little critters with a grimace and a resentful laugh.</p><p class="western">It takes a little while for us to make our way across the mountain top, but the view from this height, now that we’re not in mortal danger, is really kind of breathtaking. I can see distant mountains so high the clouds hide their peaks, valleys and plains that are a strange mix of grasslands with streams and rivers, rocks and Timefall marred land.</p><p class="western">“Here, Elle.”</p><p class="western">Corey limps slowly through across the plateau, and I follow him between a collection of boulders until a small Prepper shelter comes into view.</p><p class="western">“There’s a Prepper living up here?” I ask aloud.</p><p class="western">“Not anymore. The old man who lived here died some years ago. No one knows who disposed of the body but the Incinerator way north of here was activated only a day after his vitals went offline; two of us came up here to an empty shelter, so he must have had already contacted another freelancer to take him up before he died.” Corey says, heading for the terminal just inside the entrance. “But there was a chiralgram left by the old man, said that Porters could use this place to rest of replenish supplies if we ended up way up here.”</p><p class="western">I follow Corey in as his cuffs activate the terminal and the heavy entry door hisses open just down the short ramp. We step inside, and I’m suddenly hit by a smell of old books, dust on furniture, and something else, something strange. Unlike Valentine’s home, which was an above-ground residence with actual windows, this is a proper below-ground bunker style shelter.</p><p class="western">“What are we even here for?” I ask softly as I look around. It’s a very similar set up to Sheriff’s shelter, only a few basic rooms decked out as a kitchen and dining area, a bedroom and what looks like a lounge room style area. There’s cases upon cases of stuff stacked everywhere; boxes of old photographs and containers of what look like empty pill bottles. Next to a lounge chair that looks like it’s been sat in every day of it’s life, there’s a tall IV drip stand. “Was this guy super ill or something?”</p><p class="western">Corey moves over to a cargo rack in the hallway. From it, he takes a few cases and what looks like two PCC units. As he works at clipping them to the holsters on his jumpsuit, he shrugs.</p><p class="western">“The guy was old, older than the Death Stranding itself. Became kind of a running joke among us Porters, who was gonna find him dead one day and who was gonna pull the short straw of taking him up to the Incinerator,” he says, before gesturing to a chiralgram screen on the wall. On it, a sort list of names flashes, each one with a handful of dots next to them. “He even got into it. Made up a betting pool for us and everything.”</p><p class="western">I move closer to read the names, before realizing that I don’t see his.</p><p class="western">“You weren’t a part of it?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah, that’s me.” Corey points at a name, and I blink.</p><p class="western">“That’s...wait, your name is <em>Corrin</em>?!” I feel my face flush with embarrassment as I look back and forth from him to the chiralgram.</p><p class="western">He laughs, wincing at his injuries.</p><p class="western">“Well I never wanted to correct you,” he replies. “You were just a traumatised little kid, you didn’t know any better.”</p><p class="western">I want the bunker floor beneath me to open up and swallow me whole. I can’t believe I’ve been calling him by the wrong name for three and a half years. Not that I saw him for extended periods in that time to really get to know him...but he could have at <em>least</em> corrected me on his goddamn <em>name</em>.</p><p class="western">“You could have said something!” I hear the embarrassment and dismay in my voice. “Just – anything!”</p><p class="western">He chuckles as he closes down the cargo rack, readjusting the straps of his suit. “It was a nickname, Elle. Us Porters often give each other nicknames or call signs to know each other by. You weren’t the first person to get my name wrong. But I’m whatever you want to call me. Corey, Corrin, either is fine.”</p><p class="western">“I think I’m too embarrassed to call you anything except an ass right now,” I mutter, turning away and looking around the rest of the shelter. In the corner is a small desk, covered in dust, but a small light glows from a port in the top corner of the desks surface. When I reach out and touch is, a chiralgram terminal flickers into view, left open on an email inbox. A brief message about <em>No Chiral </em>Connection flashes before disappearing. There’s close to a hundred unopened messages from multiple ID tags, but my gaze stops at the last opened email, which has an attachment notification next to it.</p><p class="western">I feel a slight guilty pang in my gut for seeing someone elses' private messages, but the name of the sender catches my eye and I can’t help myself; I reach out and flick up the last opened email.</p><p class="western"><b> Sender: </b> <em>Sam </em></p><p class="western">There’s got to be countless Sam’s in this world, I tell myself. There’s not just one Sam who also happens to be the one person I’m searching for to warn of the worlds impending collapse, if Pandora’s words are to be believed. But as I skim over the message, there’s something in my heart that says maybe, just maybe, it is.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <em> Elder </em>
</p><p class="western"><em>I’ll be there in three days, try and hold out for me til then. </em><em>S</em><em>orry</em> <em>I </em><em>didn’t say</em><em> farewell in person, it was a time I was unsure of who I could trust and by the time that uncertainty had to be faced I was well north into the mountains. </em></p><p class="western">
  <em> You kept me sane with your stories of a past I can’t remember, so I’m honoured you would ask me to come and see you off. To keep you going, I’ve enclosed some stories of my own. Your stories got me through a lot. Maybe mine can see you through until I can get there. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em> And if you pass before I reach you, thank you, old friend. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em> Yours, </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em> Sam Porter Bridges </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Holy shit. So it was Sam who delivered this Prepper to the Incinerator. No wonder none of the other Porters knew who it was – but surely some of them had their suspicions. There’s several dozen attached files to the email, and I glance over my shoulder. Corey – <em>Corrin –</em> is standing with his back to me by a chiral printer, plugging in a few commands. After a moment of hesitation, I quickly transfer a copy of the email and all it’s attached files to my cuffs. I don’t know why I feel like I should keep it a secret, but if any of these documents might have some information on Sam Porter Bridges whereabouts, the fewer people who know about it, the better. Hopefully no one else has thought to go poking through this poor old man’s stuff yet.</p><p class="western">“You ready?” I turn back to see Corrin tucking a couple of ration packs into his jumpsuit pockets before he shoulders on a freshly printed Porters cargo pack.</p><p class="western">“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, closing off the chiralgram terminal and joining him back at the entrance. We leave and head south, reaching the edge of the mountain top close to midday.</p><p class="western">There’s a disconnected zip-line network that zig-zags its way down the mountainside and towards a shape in the distance that looks like a Distribution Centre, and I realize the one I saw from the train the other morning must be the same one – we’ve come over the top of the mountain instead of following the railway around it. Corrin leads the way downhill by stabbing a fresh climbing anchor into the dirt and tossing the rope off the edge, slowly rappelling his way down. I follow him silently, and for the next hour and a bit we pick our way down the south face of the mountain, sometimes using the climbing ropes, sometimes following a narrow winding path between the rocks, until we’re on relatively flat ground again. Once on our way downwards, the sound of the CCR’s train horn sounded out across the valley, and we paused midway to watch as the shape of the train cut a line through the mist at ground level way off to our west side before the train disappeared from sight.</p><p class="western">“Careful,” Corrin grabs my elbow as we walk, yanking me sideways before I almost step across a scanner pole. “That’s connected to the Distro Centre. With Pandora’s people crawling all over the place, we can’t risk getting pinged.”</p><p class="western">We follow the edge of a deep crevice, walking in relative silence for a while until he finally speaks again. It catches me off guard – I’d been mostly keeping my eyes on the ground, watching where I put my feet.</p><p class="western">“You wanna tell me what that was back there?”</p><p class="western">“Back where?” I feel my heart jump into my throat, thinking he caught me snooping through the old Prepper’s terminal.</p><p class="western">“That whole summoning thing you did,” Corrin replies, and I let out a breath.</p><p class="western">“Wait, what summoning thing? Pandora summoned that BT, not me,” I try to shove the gaping maw of it’s face from my mind, but every time I look just to my right, where the ground drops sharply away in an earth-splitting crevice, I see it again.</p><p class="western">“Yeah, Pandora summoned that thing, but you summoned that guy that turned it to crystal.” Corrin says, and it takes a second for me to notice that he’s stopped walking. I turn back to him, and he’s eyeing me carefully. “You brought that man...<em>thing</em> out of the tar. I saw you do it.”</p><p class="western">I see the stranger dripping in Chiralium turning to face me again, a finger raised to his lips. The face of the man from my dream last night, the one on the Beach, flits through my mind, but it wasn’t him crawling out of the tar, I know that for absolutely sure.</p><p class="western">“I don’t...I didn’t mean to do that,” I mumble. “I didn’t even know that was <em>me</em>.”</p><p class="western">Corrin steps closer and takes one of my hands, turning it over in his.</p><p class="western">“Then how do you explain all these cuts?” he asks, lightly touching the bandages that cover my palms. The stinging from the slashes has stopped thanks to the ointment, so much that I almost completely forgot about them. “Like you’d been gripping razor wire that sliced your hands right open. I saw how those strings connected from you to that thing you summoned. Like it was a puppet you dragged out of the muck.”</p><p class="western">I take my hand back, feeling self conscious. I wish he’d stop looking at me. I miss being alone out here, I realize, with no one but myself and this endless fucked up world.</p><p class="western">“Just how much can you do?” Corrin asks. “Just how powerful are you?”</p><p class="western">“I don’t know, I don’t know,” I say, and Corrin takes a small step back. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know. I don’t know just how much I can do with my DOOMS and I don’t know how much Pandora thinks I can do but I’m pretty sure I can’t do half of what she thinks I can. I’m just. I’m just super confused by all this, I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing out here.”</p><p class="western">I swallow back the overwhelming urge to cry, and instead just hunker down and rub at my face, trying to breathe. What the hell even am I doing out here. It hardly seems worth it to try to keep going if Pandora can just find me anywhere.</p><p class="western">“Hey, I’m sorry,” Corrin squats down beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”</p><p class="western">I take a moment to just breathe, before blowing out a deep breathe and forcing myself back to my feet. There’s no point in quitting now, I have to remind myself, even if it does seem pointless. Quitting means turning my back on Deadman and Fragile, and everyone else held captive.</p><p class="western">“I’m okay,” I mutter, and Corrin gives my back a small pat as we start walking again.</p><p class="western">“Okay, let’s just keep going,” he says softly. “We’ll rest once we’re beyond the edge of this crevice; if we stay here, we’re liable to trip into MULE territory. Nasty buggers have been getting more territorial and aggressive lately.”</p><p class="western">As he says it, there’s a soft <em>beep</em> and the sound of a scanner pole being set off – we both look down to realize that, right between us, is indeed a scanner pole, lit up with a yellowish light.</p><p class="western">“You mean like that?” I ask drily, and Corrin swears; in the distance, there’s the sudden sound of a blaring truck horn. Somewhere much closer, however, is another yell – we turn in unison to see someone running towards us. Someone wielding what looks like a large lance crackling with electricity.</p><p class="western">“MULE, <em>run</em>,” Corrin grabs my arm and hauls me forward, but moments later something lands meters behind us of goes <em>boom</em> – the MULE’s lance sends out bolts of lightning as it plants into the ground and throws us sideways. I slam into Corrin and we go tumbling to the edge of the crevice.</p><p class="western">Corrin’s groaning and trying to push himself up, but from where I’m laying in the dirt I can see the truck gaining on us, and the MULE who threw the lance is readying another one from a sleeve on his back. I stumble up, grabbing the long strand of rope from a climbing anchor that’s hanging from Corrin’s belt, and hook it around us.</p><p class="western">“What’re you doing?!” Corrin snaps as I quickly knot the end before stabbing the anchor into the dirt. I grab his arm and point downwards.</p><p class="western">He catches on, wrapping and an arm around my waist and we quickly scramble down over the edge, supporting each others weight as we slide down the length of rope into the murky mist of the crevice. There’s a yell above us, and suddenly we stop descending – the rope gets tugged, and we’re going back upwards.</p><p class="western">“Ah shit,” Corrin hisses as I spot the hooded heads of the MULES about fifteen feet above us poking out over the edge as more of them gather to grab the rope.</p><p class="western">“How deep is this crevice?” I ask quickly, glancing downwards. Corrin looks down too.</p><p class="western">“I dunno, another thirty, forty feet?”</p><p class="western">“Can we survive that?”</p><p class="western">Corrin looks at me like I’m crazy.</p><p class="western">“What? <em>No</em> you idiot, we’ll hit the rocks at the bottom, that’ll kill us more than the fall,” he snaps, before looking up. “Might however be preferable to whatever the hell they’ll do to us up there. MULE’s have been growing more and more vicious.”</p><p class="western">My arms are shaking from hanging onto him and the rope, and I can feel my heart pounding in my throat. I hear Deadman’s words from what feels like a million years ago, echoing in my ears.</p><p class="western">
  <em> You might just be a repatriate yourself. Of course, I have no way of testing this theory, because to do so would mean you would have to die. </em>
</p><p class="western">I swallow hard, fumbling for the Chiralium blade that Corrin gave me.</p><p class="western">“What’re you doing?” Corrin’s voice is panicked as I bring the knife up between us.</p><p class="western">“Testing a theory?” I offer, before slashing the rope that’s slowly being drawn upwards, and Corrin and I drop like a bag of rocks. I wrap my arms around him as much as I can, angling ourselves so I’m underneath his body. We plunge into the mist, our yells echoing off the walls and drowning out any sounds from above us.</p><p class="western">The fall is over in what feels like a split second, and I feel the ground rush up to meet us before we hit. I feel the shock of the impact, but no pain, and it’s as if I’m forcefully ejected out of my own body. The sound of water rushes in, filling my ears and my nose with the smell of sea salt and knocking the wind from my lungs.</p><p class="western">I’m scared, in this suddenly endless cold darkness, to open my eyes. It’s unlike my dreams, waking up on the Beach, it has a much more physical sensation. It’s not imaginary, it’s not just a dream. It’s actually, finally, happened.</p><p class="western">Oh boy, death is actually just as dramatic that I thought it would be. Opening my eyes, I’m floating in a vast, endless ocean, and far below me I can see what looks like a little glimmer of light coming from the seemingly tiny gap that was the massive crevice we tried to escape into. As bubbles fill my vision and cryptobiotes drift and wiggle between my fingers, I look upwards. Far above me is the surface, and I let myself drift towards it. Dark shapes pass by me, and before I know it I’m breaching the waters surface, and the waves wash me up onto a rocky ledge that becomes sand.</p><p class="western">Washing me up onto the Beach. It’s so much colder here than it felt in my dreams.</p><p class="western">“What are you doing here?” a voice comes to me as I shake water from my ears, and suddenly, there’s a woman, standing barefoot in the surf in front of me. She wears a dark coral blue dress that shimmers with a red highlights in the weak light. “You’re not meant to be back here, not yet.”</p><p class="western">It’s the same voice I heard in my dream after that BT touched me, so long ago back in East Knot. I try to blink the water from my vision to make out her face, but her hand reaches out and she gently pushes me back into the water.</p><p class="western">“W-wait...” I cough through a mouthful of salt water, but she won’t let me up.</p><p class="western">“You have to go back,” she says. “There’s still so much to do.”</p><p class="western">With that, she gives me one final shove and I fall back under the waves, drifting back downwards into the dark. The further down I go, the closer that weak little strand of light from the bottom of that crevice gets. I turn towards it, trying to force my arms to work to swim closer. I reach the lip of the crevice, and my hands find the cut length of rope from the climbing anchor drifting upwards. Grasping it as best I can, I pull myself downwards, the light growing a little stronger with each pull, until I’m surrounded by the blackness of the crevice’s depths, nothing but the little golden light keeping my going.</p><p class="western">I reach other, feeling the form of <em>something</em> . Something that feels like a hand. The light wavers in the water, and I see after a moment that it’s <em>my hand</em>. The arm is broken and splintered, with the bones of my shoulder sticking out at weird angles. I feel my way further, my hands trailing over smashed ribs and pulverized organs. The Bridge Baby pod is still strapped to my chest, and there’s a gurgle before the darkness of the pod shows a small, pale white hand reaching to touch the glass from the inside. Following it, the tiny face of the BB presses up to the glass, blinking owlishly up at me from within. Watching me, curiously, almost looking a little confused. Weirdly, I don’t feel any fear, or disgust. This is the Seam, it’s got to be, and this is where the Bridge Baby would feel at home. I pry at the source of the light, a faint glimmering shine coming from a hole in my bodies jumpsuit right under my left breast. It’s a strange sensation, seeing my body and knowing that yes, that’s definitely me down here in the dark, but it’s also like looking at a stranger. Everyone else in my life has seen me this way, where I’ve only ever seen the reflection in the mirror. My own body is unrecognizable.</p><p class="western">With one final push, I manage to shove my fingers into the flesh, and it gives way under the pressure like stewed meat, and the light grows as I realise I’m reaching for my own heart, grabbing and yanking at ribs to get in. The moment I touch the source of the light, a blinding flash fills my vision and seems to wipe everything away – my own dead body, the crevice, the freezing cold of the water – everything.</p><p class="western">There’s a series of flashes across my vision, like when I first plugged into the Bridge Baby, and I see so many glimpses of what has to be other peoples lives – forests, sky, the Beach flickering in between, buildings of a city, red dirt and rock, running water and seemingly endless drifts of snow.</p><p class="western">My ears fill with a cacophony of sound, like a million voices all carrying their own conversations all at once, and somewhere over the top of it is the sound of a baby gurgling, someone yelling. I think of the Bridge Baby again, but soon it all disappears, and it’s all just darkness for so long I lose track of time completely.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">It’s dark when I open my eyes, and before I have a chance to get my bearings, a wave of vertigo hits and I lurch sideways, my guts coming up through my throat and I’m puking over the edge of the cot I’m lying in. Black sludge burns my throat and splats onto the floor as I heave and cough into a thoughtfully placed bucket right by the side of the bed. A couple of cryptobiotes float up out of the pile of sick and chitter as they drift upwards. Great, my biggest nightmare of having cryptobiotes crawling up and out of my stomach is actually a reality.</p><p class="western">It’s the least of my worries, though, and as my head slowly stops spinning and my stomach stops wanting to eject itself through my esophagus, I’m able to look around. I’m in a small, compact room that’s packed wall to wall with crates and crates of fabrics and material. Books with sewing patterns on the covers are stacked in knee-high towers in every free spot of floor space, and the whole room smells like clothes straight out of the wash.</p><p class="western">There’s a tiny walkway of space, leading from the small cot I’m laying on to the open doorway – the only source of light. I carefully swing my legs over the side and realise that I’m no longer wearing my jumpsuit; I’ve been dressed in a loose, long sleeved shirt and soft, baggy pants that look like nothing I’ve ever seen come out of a chiral printer. Slowly, I stand, feeling my stomach growl uncertainly, but I make it to the doorway without collapsing. My legs feel shaky but I urge them forwards, one step at a time.</p><p class="western">“I got this,” I whisper, but I don’t feel that convinced. “Easy does it.”</p><p class="western">Step by step, I make it down the short hallway and the sound of voices drifts to me – someone’s singing. There’s music playing. I pass two other doors, both closed, before reaching the end of the hallway which opens up into a cosy lounge room and kitchen space.</p><p class="western">There’s a woman standing by the kitchen sink, washing dishes and singing to herself, music coming from a speaking in the corner.</p><p class="western">It feels so surreal, like I’ve woken up in a completely different world, but the lack of windows suggest we’re in an underground Prepper’s bunker, and I spot my pack leaning against the leg of the dining table, along with my boots.</p><p class="western">“Oh gosh, you gave me a fright!” the woman’s voice has me looking back at her, and she’s drying her hands on a hand towel, smiling brightly at me. “Thank goodness you’re finally awake, how’re you feeling?”</p><p class="western">She comes over, putting a hand to my forehead and then checking my pulse in my wrist.</p><p class="western">“Uh – ” I start, but she’s already flitting away. Her sweater catches my eye; on the back of it, there’s a large circular stitched patch with a large microphone on it with the words ‘MCs No. 1 Stan’ printed around the circles edge. “I’m...where am I?”</p><p class="western">“You’re safe, hon, don’t you fret,” the woman says, coming back with a large glass of water. “Here, drink up – I bet you’re parched. Your friend told me all about what happened, what you’ve been through. Come, come, please come sit down.”</p><p class="western">She ushers me over to the table, and sits me down before sliding into a chair next to me. I sip gratefully at the water, the taste of the Beach mixed with bile quickly washing away.</p><p class="western">“Thank you,” I mumble, not really keen on meeting her eyes.</p><p class="western">“You’re most welcome hon,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “I’m Cossy, by the way. Short for my ID tag, Cosplayer.”</p><p class="western">“Cossy,” I repeat a little dumbly, and she nods enthusiastically.</p><p class="western">“Yes – and you’re Elle, right? Your friend Corrin told me about you,” she says. I nod, and then it hits me. Corrin is still alive?</p><p class="western">“Where – where is Corrin?” I ask, and Cossy points back down the hall.</p><p class="western">“I set him up in our spare room. I thought you’d appreciate a little more peace, which is why I put you up in my craft room – it’s a bit quieter down that end of the shelter. Corrin’s out like a light; he brought you in begging for help, said you’d died saving his life getting away from MULEs!” her eyes light up as she speaks, like running for our lives and falling to my death is some kind of thrilling adventure. “And you came back to life, right here in our lounge room!”</p><p class="western">“Wait, really?”</p><p class="western">“That’s right; I freaked out, I won’t lie. I’ve heard about repatriates before, I’ve met one, but I’ve never seen the whole soul-returning-to-a-body thing before.” Cossy makes some wild gestures with her hands, as if repatriation was like some kind of fireworks display. Then, she peers at me closely. “Repatriation isn’t like… a hereditary thing, is it? You’re not related to Sam Porter Bridges by chance?”</p><p class="western">“What? No, no I’m not,” I baulk, almost tipping over my glass of water. “I’ve never met him before. Heard about him – no one ever shuts up about him. But I’ve never even met him.”</p><p class="western">“He’s a good chap. Miss his visits, really, he used to bring me deliveries in incredible condition,” she replies, before clearing her throat. “Sorry. I’m doing just that, aren’t I? Not shutting up about him. Boy, you think I’m bad, you should hear my partner go on about him; he's got a real crush on the guy!”</p><p class="western">Cossy stands up, turning around and showing off the back of her sweater. She grins over her shoulder as the words ‘MCs No.1 Stan’ flashes under the dining room lights.</p><p class="western">“You like it? I made it myself. We might both be big fans of our friend Mister Bridges, but I’ll always be the number one fan of my partner MC.”</p><p class="western">“It’s cool,” I nod vaguely, still trying to figure out what the hell a ‘stan’ is. “Is...uh, is your partner here?”</p><p class="western">I’m almost dreading the reply; if someone else who’s just as upbeat and enthusiastic as this woman appears, I might just have to leg it and leave poor Corrin behind. Cossy’s whole mood is a total step backwards from the doom and gloom and general feeling of suspicion and fear that I’ve seen on pretty much every other person’s face so far on this journey.</p><p class="western">Cossy’s smile fades a little bit.</p><p class="western">“Sadly he’s stuck in South Knot...with the terrorist attacks holing everyone up, he hasn’t been able to make it back home. It’s not safe for anyone to try and leave the cities.”</p><p class="western">“Oh...I’m sorry,” I murmur, and Cossy sighs as she sits back down.</p><p class="western">“It’s okay. He’s safe, where he is,” she says. “When the Network comes online each night, we talk. He was doing shows out in South Knot, you see. Staying with a friend, another media personality like himself; luckily they’ve got each other. But until something changes, we’re just going to be stuck apart.”</p><p class="western">I fiddle with Fragile’s micanga bracelet around my wrist.</p><p class="western">“Well...I’m hoping that maybe I can try to change things,” I say softly, and Cossy offers a hopeful smile. I explain my side of the story, and she nods along and listens intently as I tell her about the plan with Fragile and Echo, and the DOOMS list and the strands. I tell her all about the escape from Capital Knot, about Deadman and Pandora, and about meeting Valentine and finding the Bridge Baby in need of an incubator. At that, Cossy gets up and fetches something from the kitchen.</p><p class="western">She comes back with the BB pod, wrapped in a steamed, warm towel.</p><p class="western">“I don’t know much about BB’s I’m afraid, but I was hoping maybe keeping it warm might help,” she says, handing me the pod. There’s still the flashing red <em>Caution</em> notice ringing the base of the pod, but it unveils as I turn it over in my hands, and the baby inside blinks tiredly up at me. Our eyes meet, and it lifts one of its tiny fingers as if to try and reach up. I give it a small smile, and seemingly content with that, the pod veils over again. I wonder if it remembers seeing me in the Seam, trying to get back into my own body.</p><p class="western">“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say, and Cossy blushes modestly. “I have no idea how far away this safe house is that we’re meant to be trying to get to, I’ll have to check.”</p><p class="western">“For now, though, you’re safe here,” she insists, and I nod. “Take your time to recover, you can have anything you need, I’m happy to share what I’ve got.”</p><p class="western">I think about Corrin. He’ll definitely need more rest, and I think about the aching pains throughout my own body. I have no idea what state my body was in when I died, but if what I saw in the Seam is anything to be believed, it probably wasn’t pretty. No wonder Cossy freaked out when I repatriated – if broken bones and shredded flesh just knitted itself back together and healed itself in front of me I’d be pretty terrified of it, too.</p><p class="western">“Okay...just for a little while.”</p><p class="western">We sit and talk for a little while, before Cossy let’s me use her shower to get the last of the Chiralium and dried, crusted blood off of me. I hadn’t realised how gross I felt until she’d mentioned a shower, and when I’d peeled off the clothes she lent me, I show the extent of the damage. There’s several long, jagged white scars across my arms and legs, crossing over my back, but they fade quickly under the steaming hot water. A lot of the blood marks looks like someone’s already tried to clean me up as best they could, leaving long dark smears and dabs across my skin. For once, I’m grateful for the bathroom mirror, so I can see and get at the worst spots on my back.</p><p class="western">When I emerge, feeling much better than when I stepped inside, Cossy greets me with a cup of tea and shows me around the bunker, showing me a walk-in wardrobe that is, no lie, completely stuffed full of different outfits and costumes that she’s made over the years. After a while, I go and check on Corrin as she leaves to make dinner.</p><p class="western">It’s dark in the little spare room, and I nearly trip on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stir, but I kneel next to the bed and take his hand in my own.</p><p class="western">“Thank you,” I whisper, not sure if he’d wake. I don’t think he will, but I keep my voice low anyhow. “Thank you for not giving up on me and for taking me with you. I couldn’t think of what else to do. I’m glad you didn’t leave me behind.”</p><p class="western">I sit with him for a while, just listening to him breathe, thankful that he’s still alive. His hand is rough and calloused in mine, years of outdoor weathering leaving his knuckles scarred and worn. Without Corrin’s help, I wouldn’t have been much of anything. Let alone on a wayward roller coaster to try and save the country.</p><p class="western">Cossy’s voice drifts in through the doorway, something about food being ready, and she appears moments later, silhouetted against the light, carrying two dishes of something that smells far more appetising than ration packs and cryptobiotes.</p><p class="western">“Here,” she says softly, handing me a bowl and setting the other down on the little bedside stand. “In case he wakes up.”</p><p class="western">“Thank you,” I murmur, and she smiles before leaving again. I stare down at the food, some sort of stew looking concoction, feeling my stomach growling eagerly for it. I’m hoping that eating anything won’t upset my stomach, because I’m sure as hell not eating another cryptobiote any time soon. I gently go to put down Corrin’s hand, when it squeezes my fingers ever so slightly.</p><p class="western">“Evening,” Corrin mumbles, and I look up to see he’s opened his eyes, just a crack. Already, the dark bruises are beginning to fade away.</p><p class="western">“Hi,” I say softly. “Are you hungry?”</p><p class="western">“Fuckin’ starving,” he gives a weak smile, and I set my bowl aside to help him sit up in bed. I prop him up and he wraps himself back up in the soft quilted duvet, and I hand him the steaming bowl of stew once he’s comfortable. “God this smells good.”</p><p class="western">We sit and eat in relative quiet, and I find myself feeling strangely comfortable here. It’s cosy, and Cossy’s welcoming vibe, whilst a weird shift from the cold harshness of the wilderness outside, is actually really nice. Once Corrin’s finished, we talk softly about how we’ll set out again in the morning after resting, and head straight for the safe house Fragile pinged for us. Corrin says he’d rather make his way back towards Port Knot, and that if Fragile can jump him back, he’ll return with her. It’s a strange idea, that he wants to go back to the Eastern Region when he’s barely just gotten away from it. But I suppose it makes sense; he has a sense of duty to BRIDGES and the other people and Porters that are still held captive in Capital Knot. If there’s anywhere that will be the most help if or when it comes to trying to overthrow Pandora, it’ll be close to Capital Knot.</p><p class="western">Corrin falls back to sleep after a while, but I stay with him a bit longer, comfortable to have the company, albeit unconscious. As the night draws on, the Chiral Network comes online, and I receive a couple of updates from Deadman, and message him back. There’s a broadcast gone live showing Pandora seizing Corrin from the cell of a private room, and of her dumping him out in the middle of the mountain top, but there’s no more after that – it cuts off moments before I would have appeared at his side to jump him away. It’s still hard to believe I actually managed to do that; I have no idea how.</p><p class="western">I make a note to ask Fragile when we meet. If anyone knows, it’ll be her. There’s a message from her, too, worrying about the broadcast. I reassure both her and Deadman that Corrin is alive and recovering. I mention to Deadman, too, about my death and repatriation. Despite only communicating via text, he seems both horrified and enthralled.</p><p class="western">After enduring what feels like forever of Deadman telling me not to do something like that ever again, he finally relents and seems to relax a little, content that we’re both alive and well. He’s curious about the BB, but I promise to keep him update on it the next time we speak. Eventually, we bid each other a slightly more morbid goodnight, and it feels like every time I say goodbye it could very well be the last one and I wouldn’t know until it was too late.</p><p class="western">I notice a little pop up on my cufflinks, a notification saying <em>All Files Downloaded</em>. Checking, I realize that all the files I’d sent from the old Prepper’s terminal to my own, the ones Sam Porter Bridges had sent, had all suddenly downloaded in full now that I have connection to the Network. Some of the files have warning notifications next to them, saying the files have some corruption to them. I pick one of the earliest dated, un-corrupted files and open it. I’m greeted by a short wall of text, and in the dim light of the spare room, I lean back against Corrin’s bed and start to read.</p><p class="western">If I’m ever going to find Sam Porter Bridges, this might as well be the place to start.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <em> #2 </em>
</p><p class="western"><em>I don’t know if all babies are this fussy or if it’s just her. Feeding is so goddamn hard. Like, you’re hungry, so eat, don’t spit up on me every five minutes. And then what comes out the other end is so gross. So goddamn gross. The manual on basic infant care I got from the printer didn’t cover anything before actual normal time of childbirth. Premies’ get low coverage apparently. She’s twenty-eight weeks...and however long it was we’ve been working together. Nearly ten months, plus whatever time she had when she was assigned to Igor. I guess because of the halted process, </em> <em>plus getting </em> <em>kick-started whenever the hell Deadman first noticed she was beginning to grow and continue developing, she’s probably only just </em> <em>over</em> <em> thirty-</em> <em>three</em> <em>-ish weeks old. </em></p><p class="western"><em>Feels like a lifetime ago, I picked up her pod. And even tho it was only days ago, it feels like so long ago I cracked the pod open and scooped her out of it. My hands </em> <em>still kinda smell</em> <em> like that liquid stuf</em> <em>f</em> <em>. Even after she was dry and warm, tucked into the suit under my chin, she and I both still stunk like hell. The rain helped, a bit. </em></p><p class="western">
  <em>She’s awake again. Found out I can’t put her down when she goes to sleep – she’ll wake up and cry straight away. But if I’ve got her real close, she’s happy. Maybe she’s just had enough of being isolated and walled off from all physical contact. I guess even I would be too if I’d been stuffed into a jar my whole life. Holding her doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would, there’s no reaction and no rashes. She likes to pull at my whiskers tho, thinks grabbing anything she can wrap her hands around is great. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em> I’m...I’m happy to let her do that. If only she’d just fucking eat. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnnnngh yeah i have no excuse for how late this update is. life's been dumb lately. please enjoy! please comment! that'd be dope.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Stepping Stones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle makes some discoveries about herself, her companions, and her mission.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Corrin and I leave Cossy’s shelter early the next morning, and spend just over an hour picking our way through the rocky path that leads down to the waterfall; something I hadn’t even realized was there until we’d left the shelter and the roar of the water filled our ears.</p><p class="western">It’s incredible; we’re unable to hear anything except the rush of the waterfall until we’re way far from it, slowly climbing over boulders and slipping on large, flat stones half-submerged in water along the rivers edge. Even then, there’s been a ringing in my ears for hours afterwards. Corrin teaches me how to skip pebbles across the waters surface as we wade through the calmer shallows, even encourages me to explore more of what I could do with my DOOMS, but the idea of accidentally summoning a tar pit filled with wailing damned souls and horrific BT’s makes me too nervous to even consider it.</p><p class="western">Instead, I try to focus on moving forwards – keeping my eyes down and not looking at Corrin apparently gives him the necessary hint that I’m not game to try anything supernatural, and after a while, he drops the subject altogether. It’s a strange feeling, suddenly having a travel companion after so many days of being on my own. Not good, but not terrible either; Corrin keeps an incredible pace for a man that had just stared death in the face three times in one day less that twenty four hours ago. But he’s always checking on me, making sure I’m keeping up, that I’m not lagging behind too far, that we take short breaks to rest and recover before continuing.</p><p class="western">For the most part I’m doing fine, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. Repatriation is a strange thing, and for several hours through the morning I’ve been riding on a weird, euphoric wave of energy that felt like I could run a marathon. But I can’t ignore the signs of wear on my own body – deep bruises of purple and red have spread across my ribcage and down my legs after the scarring had faded into nothing more than pale lines, and there’s a very distinct imprint on my chest like a hand has tried to claw its way into my chest cavity.</p><p class="western">I try not to think about how I’d reached for my own heart, back in the Seam. When I saw the mark in the mirror of Cossy’s little shelter bathroom, I felt a stone drop in my stomach. Like when I’d first discovered the hand print on my face. Perhaps that should have been my first hint that Deadman was right about my being a repatriate.</p><p class="western">It takes us almost three hours of trekking along the river bank to reach the end of the canyon, and by the time the terrain begins to even out into gentler slopes upwards, it’s almost midday. We pause, taking some time to just sit on some of the boulders and rest, when something pings on both of our cuffs.</p><p class="western">“Looks like Echo finally came through,” Corrin murmurs, and I study the blip on my cufflinks map. It radiates gently outwards, like a pulse.</p><p class="western">“This is the safe house?” I ask, and he nods. “It’s not that far, like another half an hour?”</p><p class="western">“If that.” Corrin nods, standing up and stretching. “Only downside is it’s across the river from here. We’d be crossing over and then back again to return to the side we’d need to be to find your next DOOMS Prepper.”</p><p class="western">I look out across the river, with it’s crumbling remains of what was once a bridge sticking up at odd angles through it’s gently flowing surface. There’s also what appears to the remnants of a Chiralium-coated structure that must have been a bridge as well, but the Timefall has long since corroded it away into little more than half a rusted frame.</p><p class="western">“Doesn’t look that deep,” I note, and Corrin activates his Odradeck – something he’s used on and off throughout the morning to scan terrain ahead of us. I don’t know what feedback he receives from it, but the scan sends a light ripple across the water.</p><p class="western">“It’s not. Waist high at most, but there’s an unavoidable section through the middle like an underwater trench; it must’ve been carved by debris washing away in the storms over the last couple of weeks.” He replies as the Odradeck on his shoulder makes a whirring sounds before tucking itself back at his shoulder. “It’s deep, and it’s wide. We’d be in over our heads trying to cross that part.”</p><p class="western">“So we find a way around it? Or over it?” I suggest, and Corrin frowns. “Hey. If America’s Greatest Whatever managed to do it all on his lonesome then we can too, right?”</p><p class="western">Corrin gives me a withering look.</p><p class="western">“America’s Greatest Whoever had a lot more shit at his disposal. Retractable ladders and PCC units, for a start.”</p><p class="western">The word <em>PCC</em> strikes a chord in my head, and I quickly scramble for the pocket port on my thigh – sure enough, still tucked safely inside is one of the smaller, more compact PCC units that Fragile’s people decked me out with all the way back in Port Knot City. It’s...a <em>little</em> worse for wear, one side has a large ding in it and is badly scuffed, but when I activate it, it’s still fully functional.</p><p class="western">“Like one of these?”</p><p class="western">“You’ve had a PCC-Five unit this <em>whole time</em>?!” Corrin’s voice rises almost a full octave, before he composes himself. “Fucks’ sake, Elle. Give it here.”</p><p class="western">He runs down the short list of structures we can make with it, before fabricating something that looks like a short crossbow with a reel of bars the length of my forearm rolled up underneath it.</p><p class="western">“What is that?”</p><p class="western">“This,” Corrin says with a smirk. “Is what us Porters that <em>aren’t</em> America’s Greatest came up with to tackle problems just like this.”</p><p class="western">With that, he turns and aims the device, hefting it up into the crook of his arm as he lines up a point across the other side of the river. After a moment he fires, and the arrow shoots out over the water, taking with it the quickly unravelling reel of bars. The arrow itself seems to split right before it hits the ground, and a stake on either side of the reel bury themselves into the ground on the furthest bank. Right in front of me, a two-point cable ladder has just extended and made us a crossing.</p><p class="western">“Oh,” I say as Corrin unhooks the stakes from the end of the reel that remained attached to the crossbow device, and stakes them into the ground on our end, winding the cables taut to make a tight rope bridge. “Wow.”</p><p class="western">Corrin steps one foot onto the cable ladder, testing it’s strength.</p><p class="western">“It was a piece of equipment developed to combine the climbing anchors and the ladders; the length of the cable reels allowed for much further and more flexible reach than most ladders – add a two-point break-away grappling point at the firing end and you’re all set.” He says, his voice shaking a little as he steps fully onto our brand new bridge, his arms spread for balance. “The only thing we weren’t able to incorporate into it was a retrieval mechanism, like the sticky guns, so we count retrieve and reuse them.”</p><p class="western">I watch as he makes his way, slowly and surefooted, across the expanse of the river. His gaze never drops to the water below him, and he hardly sways. In minutes, he’s on the other side, and he gives me a big grin and a double thumbs up. My cufflinks ping with his Likes.</p><p class="western">“You’re turn,” he calls, and I realize at that moment just how much my nerves are jumping, like there’s a million ants having a rave party under my skin.</p><p class="western">“Oh boy,” I breathe, instinctively wrapping my hands over the BB pod strapped to my chest. The pod is secure in its harness, there’s no way it’s coming loose save for me actually removing it, but I suddenly think of all the possible <em>what if’s</em>. I swallow them back, and force myself up and onto the cable bridge.</p><p class="western">Corrin has <em>way</em> better co-ordination and balance than I do, I quickly realize, and my heart leaps into my throat as I flail and yelp. I end up stepping off the cable bridge, landing ankle-deep in river water. I curse and try to ignore the way Corrin wipes his hands over his face. Trying again, I take a few moments to steady myself, slowly standing up straighter and keeping my arms out for balance, before taking my first step forward.</p><p class="western">Although the cable bridge sways a little under me, it’s not half as bad, and I carefully put one foot in front of the other, keeping the ball of my foot on the rungs as I move. Corrin took no time at all in comparison to how long it’s taking me to crawl my way across, but he waits patiently until I’m halfway across. There’s a tension in his face as I step across towards him, and I suddenly realize with a glance down why. The water underneath me has become a lot darker and the current has picked up to a steady rush. I must be right over the deeper trench.</p><p class="western">“Don’t look at your feet,” Corrin’s voice is tense, and I hiss out a laugh.</p><p class="western">“A little late for that,” my voice shakes as I take another step, the cable bridge dipping with my weight at the lowest point, and water splashes up and over my boots.</p><p class="western">“Steady,” he calls. “You’re fine. Keep going. Come on, you’ll be America’s next Greatest Whatever.”</p><p class="western">His voice is comforting in my sudden <em>oh no</em> moment, and it takes me a moment to gather myself enough to feel confident in my next step. My boots slips a few inches on the wet rung, and I crouch lower and try not to pinwheel my arms too much as I feel my whole body tremble.</p><p class="western">“Easy, <em>easy</em>,” Corrin hisses, suddenly not quite so comfortingly, and for a long moment I just try not to even move, feeling every muscle in my legs tingling with nerves. He wades back in on the upstream side of the bridge, until the water is splashing up around his thighs, and he reaches out his hand. “Come on, Elle. You’ve got this.”</p><p class="western">I most definitely do not <em>feel</em> like I’ve got this, and his hand still seems so far away, but I force myself forwards again, trying to ignore how much I’m shaking. Three more steps, one in front of the other, and a brief glance down shows the darkness in the water growing ever so lighter. I’m almost there. The rope bridge sways and bounces under my feet, and I almost lose my footing again, saved only by Corrin lashing out and catching hold of my fingers at the last moment.</p><p class="western">He hauls me towards him and I take two more steps on the rope bridge before sliding off and into the water, but instead of sinking straight down into the depths my boots hit solid riverbed, but the sudden lurch into waist-deep water makes me shriek.</p><p class="western">“<em>Shit</em>! Ooh my God, holy shit – ” the cold hits like a slap in the face but before I can stop and lose my footing, Corrin yanks me with him as he steps backwards, one hand now tightly around my wrist and the other holding the rope bridge for support as the rushing water batters us against it. There’s an odd sensation of pressure from within my jumpsuit, and then the cold fades away. In a few long seconds of wading and pulling ourselves along, we emerge on the other side of the river victorious. A soft hiss comes from my jumpsuit and the pressure that had collected around my legs and sides releases. I check myself over for leaks, before raising an eyebrow to Corrin. “What was that?”</p><p class="western">“Thermal modifiers in the jumpsuits. Standard BRIDGES kit always has temperature control and anti-drowning measures,” he replies, shaking the clinging water from his legs and boots. “Keeps you warm in the cold, keep you cool in the heat.”</p><p class="western">I take a moment to catch my breath, bent double. The sudden adrenaline rush of almost falling in the river has left my legs trembling and my heart thundering.</p><p class="western">“Can’t imagine…anywhere on this goddamn continent where it gets hot anymore,” I mutter, thinking of the constant rain and cloud cover. Corrin chuckles as he steps over and hoists me up by the elbow.</p><p class="western">“Stay upright, Elle. Walk it off,” he says, half-walking, half dragging me a few steps. “And you’d be surprised. The rock fields east of South Knot get pretty damn humid.”</p><p class="western">“South Knot,” I murmur, looking back across the river and up the steep slope. On the horizon of it, sits the remnants of what appear to be half of a city, dotted in random clumps of destroyed buildings. “Beyond those ruins, right?”</p><p class="western">“Another two day trek, yes,” Corrin nods, already leading the way along the blackened rocks and pebbles of the riverbank. “Come on. We’re officially on the home stretch to this safe house.”</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">The safe house comes into view as we round into a small, inset-valley nestled into a mountainous crag of jagged black boulders and sheer cliff-faces all around. It’s relatively unassuming, with a few blue-light scanner poles and a slightly raised platform big enough to park a small vehicle on. As we step onto it, the BRIDGES logo flashes up around us and a terminal rises to greet us, but a holographic symbol of a house with a red cross through it flickers up and denies us access to the terminal.</p><p class="western">“Time to call Fragile,” Corrin rolls his eyes as he uselessly tries to access the terminal via his own cufflinks. An automated voice responds.</p><p class="western">“Access denied. Identification not recognised. Please try again.”</p><p class="western">I open my cufflinks to ping Fragile myself, when the terminal suddenly beeps and connects to mine. The voice speaks again.</p><p class="western">“Access granted. Identification confirmed. Welcome, Sam Porter Bridges.”</p><p class="western">“What the hell?” Corrin turns to me just as the access elevator unlocks and we begin to descend. “How do you have his ID?”</p><p class="western">“I – I don’t,” I stare at the flickering chiralgram of my open cuffs. “I’ve never even met the man.”</p><p class="western">“Maybe Fragile’s already here,” he muses as we head downwards into darkness, the porthole cover of the elevator closing over the top of us and several small lights flicking on along the walls. “And she added you to the same ID code?”</p><p class="western">But when we reach the private room, it’s completely empty, no sign of Fragile anywhere. Instead of waiting to figure things out, Corrin ushers me over to the brightly-lit wall on one side of the room, where a large circular device sits with an ‘Inactive Environmental Status’ readout scrolling across it.</p><p class="western">“Here, first things first,” he says, gesturing at the BB pod. I unhook it and hand it over, and he sets it into the incubator, hooking up the trance connection cable into a socket on the side. Immediately the whole thing seems to come to life, whirring and humming with scrolling readouts of data streaming across the front of the pod.</p><p class="western">After a long moment of watching and waiting, the pod unveils and the baby inside of it seems to jolt a little, as if woken from a deep sleep. It blinks and yawns, before looking out at us with those big, empty eyes. When it spots us, it gurgles and smiles.</p><p class="western">“There we go,” Corrin breathes, and I see a smile creep across his features. “Feel better, bub.”</p><p class="western">“It’s going to be okay?” I ask, feeling relief wash through me. He nods.</p><p class="western">“Yeah. Give it some time to reset its functions and reconfigure itself, and it’ll be fine.” He replies, before turning back to me. “And it might just be useful to us after all. Having a functioning Bridge Baby out here definitely has it’s perks.”</p><p class="western">I follow him as he moves across to the cot, sinking down onto it and stripping off the top half of his jumpsuit. His undershirt beneath is stained with sweat and darkened patches of dried blood, and he stretches and rolls his shoulders stiffly. I unclip and dump my pack unceremoniously on the floor against the wall, stretching my own shoulders.</p><p class="western">“What do you mean, useful?” I ask slowly, trying not to stare. Corrin has already taken so much of a beating, from the moment East Knot was seized, probably again and again whilst he was held hostage with the rest of BRIDGES. I try not to think of how serious his injuries might be.</p><p class="western">“Well if I’m gonna head back east,” he says. “I could definitely use the little guys help navigating trouble. With the increased Timefall storms coming through, it means more BT’s. Besides, it won’t do you any good.”</p><p class="western">“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, plopping down next to him.</p><p class="western">“You <em>are</em> a DOOMS sufferer,” he replies. “BB’s and DOOMS have never been a successful combination. The BB’s feedback amplifies negative emotions and stress, exacerbating DOOMS conditions. The only person to have been able to get through that is Sam Porter Bridges himself – through sheer force of will or something else, no one knows. But even he lost himself to it in the end.”</p><p class="western">“Lost himself? How?”</p><p class="western">Corrin sighs as he lies back on the bunk, rubbing his hands over his eyes.</p><p class="western">“No one know the <em>exact </em>truth about what happened to him after his BB bricked itself and he had to take it up for disposal,” he says slowly. “Someone in BRIDGES started the rumour that he was so rocked by the loss of the BB that he climbed into the Incinerator with the pod, but there wasn’t enough Chiralium puffed into the atmosphere for that.”</p><p class="western">“Wow...that’s awful,” I say softly. “What a shit rumour.”</p><p class="western">“It was the one of the worse rumours. The general public across the Network was never made aware of what really happened to him, only that he went MIA – but a recovery team was sent up and found his cufflinks had been fried, and the BB pod was left empty on the floor,” Corrin continues, gazing up a the ceiling. “So a private order was put out amongst us Porters – locate and retrieve Sam Porter Bridges. The man officially went awol, took off with a ticking time bomb. If the BB’s corpse was to go necro...Sam could have decimated an entire city with it. The newly-founded council board was terrified he’d take some kind of retributive action against BRIDGES for putting him through the shit-show that the second expedition turned out to be.”</p><p class="western">I lie back, too, an uneasy feeling churning in my gut. Sam Porter Bridges. Household name and national hero. Possible terrorist as well? I think of the journal’s he’s sent to the Elder...a different story entirely, if they’re true.</p><p class="western">“But...nothing happened. No voidouts, and no one ever saw or heard from Sam ever again. He just disappeared into the wilderness and never came back.”</p><p class="western">“Wow. Makes you wonder...why does Pandora believe he’ll come back to save BRIDGES all over again, if he had so much contempt for the UCA?” I murmur, and Corrin nods.</p><p class="western">“Which is why what you’re doing out here, stranding as many DOOMS sufferers as you can together, is way more important than finding Sam.” He says, and I look over at him. He shrugs. “Look. If the man can just disappear like that for ten something years, even with the best Porters and Couriers out there searching every nook and cranny for him, he’s going to stay gone. Doubt he’s even connected to the Network, so he likely has no idea any of this is even happening. Sam’s a lost cause. But we can still re-take the Network with Fragile’s plan to flip it back on the Homo Libertas.”</p><p class="western">I lie quietly for a moment, letting that sink in. Corrin truly believes that Sam is definitely gone. At least that confirms that very few people if any knew of Sam’s journal’s sitting in the Elder’s email logs. And...and that his BB had survived, by some miracle. Maybe all Sam really wanted was a life with his BB, away from the UCA.</p><p class="western">Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence.</p><p class="western">“Elle? Are you there?” Echo’s voice rings all around us, and I jump to my feet.</p><p class="western">“Echo!”</p><p class="western">“Good to hear you’re still alive,” they say. “Was starting to worry about you dropping off the face of the earth yesterday. But you popped up on the radar about ten minutes ago, at the safe house?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah,” I nod, glancing at Corrin. “We just arrived. Hey, was it my ID that got flagged?”</p><p class="western">“Well, <em>someone</em> had to grant you access,” Echo’s voice is a little smug. “Last night Fragile sent through the access verification to the safe house, and I added you to the ID register whilst you were sleeping, but you still come up under Mr Bridges name.”</p><p class="western">Both of us sigh in relief. One mystery, at least, solved.</p><p class="western">“Where’s Fragile?” Corrin asks. “We were meant to ping her to meet us here.”</p><p class="western">“Fragile’s ended up a little...pre-occupied,” Echo replies tersely. “There was an attack on Port Knot last night, Gardnos made a real display of the dead this morning from what I’ve seen on the cams. It’s pretty shit out there right now.”</p><p class="western">“Is Fragile okay?” I have to swallow back the lump rising in my throat, trying not to imagine the extent of the damage the separatists could do.</p><p class="western">“She pinged me a bit earlier and she’s fine, but she’s currently running crowd control and trying to keep everyone safe and calm. But you won’t be getting back across Ground Zero on that freighter anytime soon,” the exhaustion in Echo’s voice is almost tangible, and I wonder briefly if they’ve been up all night again. Corrin opens his mouth to ask about Ground Zero, but Echo continues before he can speak. “The bastards took out the freighter in a bombing. Half the harbour is in shambles, and the rest of the port is in chaos as well.”</p><p class="western">“Shit,” Corrin murmurs.</p><p class="western">“It’s not all bad, they managed to set up a blockade with the shipping containers around the port to defend the most important areas,” Echo says. “But sadly Fragile had to make the decision to leave the BRIDGES Distribution Centre vulnerable.”</p><p class="western">There’s a moment of quiet as we digest this news, and I wonder just how far I might be able to beach jump, if I practice enough. Maybe far enough to get back across the Great Lake? Again, more than ever, I wish Fragile were here herself so I could ask her advice, but she’s very clearly got more important issues at hand.</p><p class="western">“Thanks for the heads up,” Corrin says finally, and Echo makes a noise of acknowledgement.</p><p class="western">“All good. Hey Elle, do something for me?”</p><p class="western">I look up at the ceiling, where the speaker in the corner sits perched. It’s a little better than just talking to nothing.</p><p class="western">“Yeah?”</p><p class="western">“That Bridge Baby you rescued, I’d like to take a look at it.” Echo says, and I glance over to the incubator set into the wall. The fetus inside the pod yawns and stretches sleepily, not paying us any attention. “Lockne-Malingen was working on some new developments regarding BB use, and if I can get in touch with Deadman tonight and get access to that research, I might be able to tweak and enhance the BB’s performance. Really give it a boost in all areas, from BT detection to updates on the environmental data feeds that monitor its stress levels. But I’ll need you to bring it out to my Comms Tower, have a look at it in person.”</p><p class="western">Their words catch my attention, the way they said <em>in person</em>. So far, Echo has simply been a mysterious voice on the other end of a speaker. I don’t think I’d ever tried to quite picture what they could look like in the flesh, what kind of person they’d be.</p><p class="western">My cufflinks ping with a notification, and Corrin peers over my shoulder to see as I pull up the little chiralgraphic map.</p><p class="western">“Huh. One problem with that,” Corrin says with a raised eyebrow. There’s a brand new location plotted on the map, well north west of our current position. “You’re headed in the opposite direction to Echo’s tower.”</p><p class="western">I look at where he points, and he’s right. The next DOOMS prepper I’m meant to be locating is way south, almost as far as South Knot City itself. I’d be going back and forth along the coast to do both, and I seriously doubt I have that sort of time on my hands.</p><p class="western">“Crap,” I murmur, and Echo hums in agreement, but Corrin just sits back and rolls his shoulders.</p><p class="western">“I’ll take it. If Echo gets the necessary data for the upgrade, I’ll take the BB up there whilst you head south and find this prepper of yours,” he says, eyeing the BB pod on the wall before side eyeing me with a small smile. “But you’ll just have to cross the river without someone to hold your hand this time.”</p><p class="western">“Oh fuck off,” I snort and give him a small shove with my shoulder as I stand. “I’ll be a river crossing master by the end of this, since I’ll probably have to come back up this way once I’ve completed this next strand – right Echo?”</p><p class="western">“Right. Sounds like a plan then,” Echo says. “And it’s just as well it works out like this, because your next DOOMS prepper to strand once this one is complete will be...well, me.”</p><p class="western">I blink, and Corrin frowns.</p><p class="western">“Wait, what?”</p><p class="western">“Yep. I’ve never been connected to the Chiral Network, I’m a DOOMS sufferer, and, this is the nice part, I’m a willing and ready participant for a strand. No convincing needed.” Echo replies. “Took me a little while to realize that I could be a part of this, more than just your eyes and ears across the continent, but it makes sense.”</p><p class="western">“Wait wait back up,” Corrin interjects. “You were<em> never</em> hooked up to the Chiral Network?”</p><p class="western">Echo goes quiet for a moment, and then sighs audibly over the speakers.</p><p class="western">“...No, I wasn’t. I was left out of the grand second expedition west, because I was assumed KIA,” they say slowly. “Not unlike Valentine, who was missed out on because her lab wasn’t tagged by Amelie once the first expedition left the area. My guess is Valentine became adamant to stay outside the UCA after she felt abandoned by Amelie.”</p><p class="western">“Sounds like someone’s been reading your cuff logs whilst you’ve been asleep, too,” Corrin snorts softly, and I shrug. It’s not much of a surprise, but it does make me wonder – what else in my cuffs can Echo see and nose through? Hopefully they haven’t found the emails from Sam to the Elder – now I have a vague idea of what the general reaction to Sam deserting the UCA was like, my want to keep his journal a secret is even greater.</p><p class="western">“In any case. The earlier you can both set out for your next stops, the better,” Echo says, a sense of quiet urgency in their voice. “Elle, once you’ve completed the next strand, head north along the western coastline and come find me.”</p><p class="western">After that, Echo bids us a brief goodbye and disappears, and Corrin sighs as he leans back and pops his spine with a grunt.</p><p class="western">“Well, I’m going to wait here another hour or so until the pod’s fully reset,” he yawns. “And probably get in a nap whilst I’m at it.”</p><p class="western">I bite back a remark about how lightly he seems to be taking the news about Port Knot and the whole impending doom of the world at large with Pandora having turned Capital Knot on it’s head, and instead busy myself with pulling my pack back on. I guess this is more or less my cue to leave and keep going – that DOOMS prepper isn’t going to strand himself – and so I move over to the incubator in the wall, tap lightly on the unveiled pods glass. The BB turns slowly to look at me, reaching up and tapping a tiny finger back at me from its side.</p><p class="western">“You’re gonna be okay now,” I murmur, casting a glance over my shoulder at Corrin. “And look after him, all right? I don’t want him to die.”</p><p class="western">The Bridge Baby blows bubbles and wiggles its little body, cooing softly but clearly not understanding, and I turn back to Corrin.</p><p class="western">“I’ll keep going then,” I say. “Best I find this next guy as soon as possible.”</p><p class="western">Corrin stands and walks me to the door, a hand on my shoulder as I go to open the door to the elevator.</p><p class="western">“Stay safe, you hear me kid?” I turn back, and without warning Corrin hugs me so tightly it’s almost painful, but I return the hug, listening to him breathe for a moment. “Please?”</p><p class="western">“Promise,” I nod into Corrin’s shoulder, and seemingly satisfied he releases me. Looking at him from an arms length, I try to picture what Corrin would have been like in a non-fucked up post-Stranding world. A cool uncle, maybe, always away on business trips but always bringing back gifts from far corners of the globe. He has that kind of face about him.</p><p class="western">I leave him with the BB in the private room, heading up the elevator and back out into the world alone. My hood hisses up automatically as the temperature drops and the porthole opens up, rain coming down in a heavy shower across the barren landscape. With a deep breath, I step off the safe house platform and into the gathering puddles that dot the ground.</p><p class="western">Heading back the way we’d come, I reach the rope-bridge at the riverbank and pause. The water is rushing much faster beneath it, and I really don’t feel like doing this again. The other side of the bank seems so far away, and I try to guess the distance.</p><p class="western">Could Beach-jumping really be that hard to figure out? I consider sending Fragile a message to ask for her guidance, but think the better of it. She’s got much more pressing things on her mind right now. Surely I can figure this out myself. What was it about seeing Pandora almost kill Corrin that had let me do the jump yesterday? The urgency of wanting to protect him, put myself between them. The feeling of needing to be <em>right there</em>.</p><p class="western">I focus on the opposite bank of the river, and try to picture it again – Pandora standing there, pointing a gun at Corrin. But it doesn’t have the same effect, because I <em>know</em> Corrin is safe. He’s back at the safe house, probably having a nap. Letting out a deep breath, I stare hard at the far side of the river, trying to pick out the very spot where I can imagine myself landing, picturing it in my head, being right at that point. There’s a growing hum in my ears, tingling up my spine like a bee has gotten into my jumpsuit. I try to ignore it, but there’s a snap like someone’s clapped their hands over my ears, and suddenly I see the Beach, feel the freezing air, and then I’m back again.</p><p class="western">My feet land in water, sinking in up to my knees. I look down – I jumped <em>maybe</em> two meters forwards and way to the left into the river, and I have to steady myself as my stomach lurches violently. This is going to take a <em>lot</em> of practice. The other bank is still a long way away.</p><p class="western">Redoubling my efforts, I keep my eyes right on that spot amongst the rocks, imagining my boots crunching as they land on the pebbles, hearing the rushing river behind me. The hum in my ears starts to build again, and I can feel the tingling spreading down my arms towards my fingers. Without daring to look down, I try to push the feeling further, and then –</p><p class="western"><em>Snap</em>.</p><p class="western">I land, immediately falling to my knees and almost keeling over completely into the shallows on the other side of the river. But I’m here, I’ve <em>done it</em> – I jumped.</p><p class="western">Something that feels like a hot raindrop runs down my nose, and I reach up to wipe my face. My fingers come away wet and red – my nose has started to bleed. Great. Fantastic. I press my hand to my face as I feel more blood trickle down my face, pushing myself to my feet to get clear of the river completely so I don’t tip over backwards.</p><p class="western">Cussing quietly as I make my way slowly along the riverbank in the general direction of the next DOOMS prepper, I decide to give Beach-jumping practice a rest for a while. If that’s the toll it’s going to immediately take on me, perhaps it’s best left for more dire situations. In a moment of afterthought, I remember how Fragile had been attacked by something on the Beach as she’d made the jump in East Knot the night we’d gone back – and I curse myself again.</p><p class="western">“Gotta be more careful,” I mutter to myself as I try to stem the incessant drips of blood from my nose. A headache has started to grow in the base of my skull. “Can’t be reckless about this.”</p><p class="western">After nearly an hour, my nose bleed finally begins to slow, and I can’t imagine what I look like – I can feel the blood drying on my face as a soft breeze picks up. The rain has remained constant, however, and I climb the slope up towards the ruins of a set of buildings, I often slip and lose grip on the soggy ground, occasionally sliding a few feet back downhill. When I finally crest the rise, a vast wasteland of rubble and debris stretch out beyond where I stand, and I take a moment to just try and take it in. In the distance, I spot the glowing lights that line what looks like a highway winding its way through the gloom. Closer, however, is a blinking light of a BRIDGES facility, and I make my way towards it, keeping behind as much of the rubble as possible in case the place is guarded.</p><p class="western">I watch and wait for any signs of life, but after nothing moves in what seems like forever, I approach the entrance slowly. It’s a semi-destroyed lab, by the looks of it, with only one entrance and the far end of it completely blown out. No scanner poles whirr and no automated voice greets me as I step into the entryway. It’s nice to be out of the rain, however, and a look around the lab inside shows zero signs of anyone else occupying the space. In fact, it looks like it’s been completely stripped of all usable machinery and equipment, like whoever worked here had taken their stuff and left.</p><p class="western"><em>Perhaps for somewhere else that’s not half in ruins</em>, I think as I examine the debris of the destroyed back end of the building. It’s sealed off by a force-field, obviously to keep the weather and intruders out. I poke around for a little bit, going over the work benches and the terminal inbuilt into the wall over the main section of benches. There’s really nothing left here; whoever moved out, has moved out methodically and thoroughly, leaving nothing behind that wasn’t important.</p><p class="western">A soft tinkling drifts to me from the entryway into the lab, brought in by the blustering wind outside, and it takes me a second to locate the source of the noise – a hanging mobile, fashioned out of thin bits of metal punched out to look like various sea creatures, has been hung up on the ceiling, high above my head. It’s the only thing that seems to be of significant sentimental value left here, and yet...it’s been left.</p><p class="western">I can’t imagine a baby lying in a cot beneath it would have been able to see it very well, from way up there. But there’s also no signs of any kind of baby stuff having been here in the first place. The whole building reminds me a little bit of a hospital that’s been re-purposed for an engineer or mechanic, and then since been abandoned.</p><p class="western">I leave it be, and go back to the terminal by the entrance. Bringing it up, it proudly states <em>Offline: No Chiral Connection</em>, but the ID tag that pops up catches me by surprise.</p><p class="western">
  <em>Mama’s Lab.</em>
</p><p class="western">Deadman had called that woman – Malingen, he’d called her <em>Mama</em> when he’d been telling me about the synthesized repatriate blood. And Valentine had that photo of her, the woman who had designed Valentine’s wheelchair; the girl in a mechanics jumpsuit with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, big glasses framing her face. She had a twin sister, who I’d seen on the cameras in Capital Knot with Heartman – <em>Lockne.</em></p><p class="western">Sure enough, when I pull up the ID profile on the terminal, there’s a photo of the woman with the glasses under the ID tag. She’s registered as a mechanical engineer with BRIDGES I, but her status...reads as ‘deceased’.</p><p class="western">“She died?”</p><p class="western">“Erm, in a fashion,” Echo’s voice from my cufflinks makes me jump almost a foot in the air. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Just noticed you’d reached her old lab and thought I’d check in on you.”</p><p class="western">“Echo – what happened to her?” I ask, and there’s some shifting around on the other end of the line.</p><p class="western">“Malingen <em>technically</em> is still alive; her consciousness resides within the body of her twin sister Lockne, which is the woman you’ve seen in Capital Knot. The girls are now technically one person with two souls. It’s a long, complicated story.” They say, and I close down the profile.</p><p class="western">“Why does that sound familiar?” I muse quietly as I look down the list of functions on the main menu of the terminal. “And Echo, do you know if I can fabricate anything here that will get me to South Knot any faster? I don’t really know if I can afford to spend the next day and a half trekking there, if Port Knot’s already getting the shit beaten out of it.”</p><p class="western">Echo is quiet for a second.</p><p class="western">“Actually, maybe not something you can fabricate but...there <em>is</em> another possibility for faster travel. Your idea to travel by the Railway has given me an idea that might just work.”</p><p class="western">“The faster the better,” I nod.</p><p class="western">“You should see a cargo delivery slot just to the right of the terminal,” Echo says quickly. “Then next to that should be a big porthole in the floor marked ‘No Standing’ with another terminal close by.”</p><p class="western">I turn and spot it immediately. “Got it. Next?”</p><p class="western">“You can use that cargo chute to log a delivery request for the cargo train to pick up. With a request logged, the train will pause at this location to have the cargo loaded instead of going straight through, and will head to the next destination.”</p><p class="western">I look at the only possible destination left on the list that’s south of this lab – <em>South Knot City.</em> I guess only the major facilities have had cargo chutes like this installed; individual Prepper shelters wouldn’t have the same luxury of being on the main route of the Railway. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to get off the train before I reach the city limits, and can make my way to this Prepper from there. I select the destination, and am greeted by a small pop-up saying <em>No Chiral Connection. Please retry command.</em></p><p class="western">“Fuck,” I mutter.</p><p class="western">“Hang on, I got this,” Echo says, and a moment later the pop-up disappears and the strand at the top of the screen goes from red to green, the word <em>Online</em> scrolling across instead. “Now this place is on the sub-network, but only just. It’ll be enough to get you to South Knot, at any rate.”</p><p class="western">“Okay, good.” I nod, and the cargo request goes through. One more notification appears, stating that the train will arrive in an hour for pick-up, and to please standby. “Thanks, Echo. I owe you one.”</p><p class="western">“Repay me by making this strand, and we’re even,” there’s a shiver in their voice, like someone dropped an ice cube down their shirt, before they sigh. “I’ve gotta bounce. BT’s are getting noisy outside again. Stay safe okay?”</p><p class="western">“Yeah, you too.”</p><p class="western">With Echo gone again, I settle myself down by the terminal and resign myself to waiting. At least the train will be a lot faster that legging it the whole way. Pulling up my cufflinks, I bring up the emails from Sam to the Elder again, picking out the next entry. It’s dated as the third entry, and as I skim the text I realise there’s some data corruption in this entry, but enough for me to make out some parts of it.</p><p class="western">And if Sam had wanted to live outside of the UCA to raise the child himself, he must have had a good reason for doing it alone. Deadman never spoke about what happened after Sam had left “on one last delivery”, and I don’t recall ever overhearing anything from any other BRIDGES personnel about it either, only that Sam Porter Bridges was a living – and vanished – legend of the UCA. Having heard Corrin’s take on the Great Deliverer’s disappearance makes me feel a bit strange, caught between needing other to know the truth, and wanting to protect what little privacy Sam must have managed to scalper for himself.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>#3</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Come to realize that babies are poop factories. We made it to Port Knot City last ṅ̴̥̈́̽͊̏͊̿͐̒̍̈́̿͛̈́ĩ̴̡̛͔̳̦̣͇̜͉͉͓͙̪̬͔̫̐͒̑͒̈̌͛͊̑͘͘̕͠ͅg̷̦̤̭̙͍̈́̆͐̽̍̄̔͊̎͗͊̉ͅḥ̴̡̡̡͉͇̘̘̮̹̖̮̲̹͇̻͇̖̓͂t̷̨̼͕̹̩̜͚͎̖̟͎͎̓̈̔̏ ̸͈̅̌̍́̽̈́̄̊̔̔̽̔͂͋̉͝͠a̷̧̰̹̟͎̼̘̩͓͔̐̋̊̅̎̈̿͊͗͜͝n̴̢͎͍̲̩̙͍̭̪̟̻̤͒̏̈́̂̒̿̀͗̂̈́̔̃́͐̕͜͠d̸̨̧͈̗̠͚̙̺͕̦͉̖̝̣̼̯̒͋͂̈́̊̉ͅ ̵̡̨͔̞̤̩̬̞̳̬̝̠̝̣̄͋̊̉̍́͋̉͝t̵̫̘̭͍̣̙̭̼̲̱͌̒͝ͅḧ̵̲́̊̓̎̋̕i̷̪͚̤̭̫̣̞̲̬̮̩̥̹͆͊̓̄͛̈́̿̉͜͠ͅs̸̡̧̟͉̦̙͍̮͕͍͙̻̤̓̾͋̈́̏̓̉̒͒̽̍̈́͆͛̓̒͘͜͜͠͠ ̸̖̹̙̠͚̣̗̫͓̞̞̫̠̄m̴̢̪̹̦̳͚͉͎̩̭̘̤̫̞̳̞͔̀̃̊̒̒̆̊̒̏̃̃̐̂͠͝͝o̵̢̨̞͕̙̭̬̪͔̥͕͍̗̮̯̝̙̮̓̑̏́̏̃͐r̷̼̭̿͒͌̉̄̏͒̆̅͂ñ̷̜̪̭̣̗̦͗̂̾̿̚͜͝ͅi̷͖̗͇͓̱͇̰̯̘̠̪̬͈͖̎̔͜ͅͅn̸̨̨̠͔̘͉̥̗͕͎̤͔̤̝̾͂͑̓͑̒̾̀́̎̂̊̒̒͆͠ģ̴̧̼̹͈͍̺͖͎̱͖͎͇͓͕͕̫̠̈́̂͆̔͂̉̆͛͑͘͜͠ ̶̳̭͖̲͂̽̈́̐́͆͗̿͆̅̉̈̚͝b̸̨͓͓͍͎̫͓͐́̈́̌̚ͅe̸̡̲͚͚͕̤͔̖͉̩͈̲̝̞̻̿̆̓̈́̽̄̿̈́́̈̎̇͋̍̃͊̐͘f̶̤̂̍̃̽̌͂̐͆̃̐̐͝͠͠ö̶̘́̀͂͆̌͆̚̕͘ŗ̴̛̪̞̜̱͕̖̥̳̝͔̊̄̐͊͒̔͛͊̅̿̽͘͠͝͠e̸̖̱̗̜̙͕͙̹͕̼̼̬͇͙̒̅̇̐̊̓̅̉̃̐͗̌͊ ̸̨̣͒̔͒̀̅̉̏̚d̴̗̎̽̐ͅầ̶̛͍̫̥̙͗̐̽͆̓̐̎̉͂̄̎̆͘w̵̛̞̒͌̅̽̽̎̕̕n̷̨̢̧̢̼̮͔͈̳̬̮̬̼͇̻̹̆͂̋̋̈̓̽̂͂̈́̂̂̋̄̿ ̴̢̧̡̢̧̟͙̤̜̯͙͉̻̲͎͈͔̲̆͛͛̓͌͊̾͑̈́̃̈́̅̿̀̈͒͠İ̸̧͍̜̪͉͇̳͒͒͆̏͜ͅ ̴͚͒͐̓͌̽́́̕̚͝ḡ̸̡͚̪̮̞̪̫̖̭̝̅̔͗̌̈́̊̽̊̾̎͌̓͒͠ỏ̴͈̳̪̅̈̅̋̏̆̈́͛̈́̔̑̆̕̕͘͝͠t̴̢̢͖̠̯̫̮̣̞̠̩̗͕̺͐̈̄̈̍͂̊͊͆͗̈̚͜͝ ̷͇̮͌͊̾̌͒̔͌͘ự̷̧͈̰̘͖̪̩̖̙̯̉̌͆͊̕͜ͅs̷̢͇̖̙̙̦̤͖̩̣̬͕̳̈́̀̂͑͐̈́̚͜ ̴̢̝̼̫͕̰͍̦̮̩̍̌͋̽̒̀͋̍͜͠ō̵̡͓̩̼̣͑͋́̏̾̽͐̅̐̚̚͝ṇ̶̅̑̉͋͑̅́̑̿̀́̆̏̑ ̸̫̪̖̖͕̘̮̖͆͗̈̇͊̈́̊͛̎͋͝͠ͅb̴̡̛̻̟̺͈̫̦̺̳̑͋̐̈́͒̍̐̅̂̔͒̚͜͠o̵̹̽a̴̧̛̬̼̪̖͕̳̙͂̈́̃̑̍͂͒̋͂̐̈̾͝ͅr̵̲̬͚̞̈́͋̿̕͠ḑ̵͈͎̱̲̳̮̹̥̜̰̘̯͍̫͈̟̃̄̄̃̒̐̐͐̊͜ͅ ̵̢̲͖̦̳̪̥̻̘̥͔̖̝͓̩̭̫̹̹̉̐̆o̷͍͎̭̣̼̟̯̥̹̯̩̘̗̲̲͓̘̣̊̏͐͛͑̌͑͛̐̚̕͘ͅņ̴̧̧̤͓̺̤͕͎͙̠̙̭̼̬͑̍̅̒͗̾̐́̽͂͑̇̾̀̓̏͒̌ȩ̶̧̹͍̪̰͎̲͇͚̳̮͈̣͙͉̖̗͆̀̿̎̓̈́͗̿̒̽͐͋̾͗̍͝ ̶̡̨̡̬̱̲̤̝̯̍̅̇̒̍̑͐̿͐̿̇̂͐̄̐̚͜͠͠ȍ̸̲̼̰̘̲̫͈̪̳̖̳̳̓̆̂̄͘ͅf̴̧̧̛̮̜̦͕̙̫̫̜̋̀͌͐̂͌̎̐̈͒̽͘̕͝ ̷̡̯̮͓̳̪̜͉͚̤͇̦͙̥̥̮̝̼͆̌̊͌̑͆̎̏ͅF̴̛̣̔̉̍́̿̄̅̑͋̌̽̋̎͂͘r̶̨̛̦͇̣͕͉͕͕͎̤̞̭̱͕͔͉̩͈͊͗̅̿̆̓͗̈̑́̌̆͘͜a̷̢̛̖͉̺̰͕͕̦̥͍͉̼̣̭̼̰̖͔͛͌̒̏͒̉̐̋̿̅͘͝ͅg̸̳̩̑͗͊̋͠į̵̳̞͙̝̈́̋̈̋͐̍͊̑̚l̸̨͉̜͍̥̩̮̓̈́͝e̵̢̜̹̻̭͇͍̞̍̈̈́̇͑͘̕’̶̢̯͕͉̝̣̬̞͔͉̝̦̞̬͎̐̍̀̓̊̎͒͋̆̍̀̆s̸̩̖̣͙̝͕̟̳̯͕̤͐͂͗̎̇̀͑͑̓̃̌̈̚͜͠͠ͅ freighters heading across the Ground Zero lake. Lou chose that particular time to crap her over-sized diaper, so guess who got to share that stain? Thanks kid. Won’t let you forget that one when you’re older. If you get older. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Maybe I should get her looked at, by the Doctor out in the mountains maybe. Maybe the Mountaineer will lend me that machine I lugged up there to get her checked out, make sure everything's okay. Just don’t know if I can risk it, I really don’t. G̵̛̫̥̟̹̣͇̲̘̯̤͓͕̣͉̦̩̎̓̿͋̊̀͜͜͝e̵̛̬͌͛̀̓͂̽͊̃̆̑̋̂͘t̶̛͇͒̈́͂̈́̈́͊͐̄͘͝ṱ̷̛͈̥̼͈̬̇͂̇̎͒̃͗̔̔̈́̋̊͗͝͝i̶̢̹̼̭̫̪̎͐͒͑n̷̢̦̹͙̤̫͍̪̯͖̼̳̋̿̓̃͒̉͗͜͝͠g̷̡̡̭̟̳̘͙̬͕͛̀̊̀̄͘͝͠ ̷̲͎̲̫̰̭͙͓̇͐̐̋͐͘ỏ̸̙̖̥̝̦͙͙̮̺̖̄̉̄̑̚ņ̷̧̣͍̙͎͉͉͙͑̃̒̎̉̿̓̓͑͌͊͐̚ͅ ̴̢̧̛̜̫͔͔̙͙̗̈́͐͛̂̆͝ͅb̸̧̛̛̳̹̭̠̤̦͓͓̻̺̗̩̰͖͕͓̉͆o̴̢̻̭̭͈̦͙͎͕͎̺̰͌̊̀̀̎̂̐͗̍̋̑͂̇̾͘͘̕͝a̴̛̠̠͖͙͈͓͎̼̥̣̜͓̯̠̩̐̃̍̓͗̄̏̂̑̿̀̀̉̐̇͒͗͝ͅͅr̵̼͎̳͖̱̰̗̦͕̹̈̍̍̍̐̈͊̈́͒͋̚̕̕͘d̸̻̺͔̗̱̥͑̓͊̿̃͝͝ ̴̢̬̖̙͇̞͓̦̬̱̖͕̝͑͊̔t̶͖̼̭͙̱̫̎ͅḩ̵̨̢̛̛͉͙̦͙̥̰̣̱̠͈̰̂̐̈̈̋̄̔́͊̽͘͠a̸̺͔͖̙͉̥̙͊t̸̨̨̡͚̺͔̦̤͎̟̻͙̠͕̏̐͒͜ͅ ̶̧̡̡̢̯̹͍̲͉̻̭̼̝̜̫͊̀̄̒f̶̛̲̱̳͗͛̅̈́͒̆̿͆̿̚r̴̢̠͙͚̻̭̞͉͊̍̃e̶̢̛͔̬̹̺̹̻̊̋̊̑̈́̎̈́̓̃͘͘͠ͅį̷̛̘͎̝̙̼̝͕̥̘̪͎̹́̆̔̃̎͒̆́̉̌̽̓́̾̇̕̚g̴̨̛̮̳̩̎̾͆̽͐̋̐̽͗̔́̌͆̏͌́̏ḩ̷̧̢̢̛̛̟̮͔͚̩̣͓̦͋̍̈͒̔͋̀̅̽̽̆͘̕͘t̶͇͚̟̳̿̑͑̓͒́̃̑̇̌͆̉̽͆̓̊͋ͅę̸̡͉̳̤͓͓̞͔̲̼͉͇̍͐̎͛̈́ŗ̵̙̯͓̦͍̼͓̦̟̦̲̦̘̭͋̍̿͗̋̄̾͊̈́͌̈́̈́̉̓̈͝͝ ̷̠̜͐͌̎̏̐̆͊̇̇̈́̈́͆̽̚w̵̨̡̛̥̝͕̭̝̗̥̥̟̺̞͓͚͎̩̄͐͐̅̓̐̄͋̕̕a̵̡̢͙̹̲̼̋̎̀͋̂̓͊̃̃͆͘̚͘͘͠s̸̛̛̞̘̫͔̺̣̙̉͊̚͝ ̷̭͆̾̋̒̆̉͛͌͑̍̕̚r̵̡̢̟̺̮̺̯̝̱̳̲͉̯͕͚͓̞̲͛̋͂̃̔͂̑̑̈̍̒͆̕͜͠i̸̢̨̛͚̣͓̝͇̪͈̣̙̫͍͌̔̌͋̌̆̌̅͐̇̿̌͑̌̔̚͜s̵̡̧̼̤̥̑̉k̸̝͕̋̇ ̸̧̧̛̱̼̖͓̩̫̞̠͖̝͚̘̦̮̟͑͜ͅe̷̡̧̬̦͚͎̖̹̪̯͙̜̲̿̆̐͊̄̌̍͘͘͝n̴̹̓̈́̑̏̿̑͛̚o̴̻͔̙̩͔͇͊̽̇̌̌͗͋̉̏ͅu̷̡̡̨̼̭͍̹̫͙̹̘̱̳̲̗̬̤̰̎̓̒̾̅̌̈̆͂̀͘͠g̸̡̡͙̟̜̩̞̘̘̺̩̜͙̙͎̑͗̈͂̀̌̂͂͆̇͜h̷̡̛͚͍͎͙̭͔͉̞̟̤̰̯̳̎͊̽͐̒̿͂̾͠ͅ,̷̛͈́̊̎̅̑͂͆̈́̒̃̓̕͘ turns out Deadman was on it too. Probably going to some whatever over in Lake Knot. Fuck I felt bad. He’s done the most for us...he liked Lou a lot, kid really grew on him. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Was barely able to clean up the shit b̶̼͋é̸̫̟̻̳͠f̶̼̤̤͐̆ǫ̴̝̝͆͌̇̽r̶̪͂̾͑̑e̵͕̮͓̍̑͋ ̸̪̯͘ḁ̷͝n̸͎̋y̴̰̭̯̲͒o̵̩̙̣͖͗n̷͙͇̲̗̈͋e̶͍̖͍͐̓̍͐ ̶̯̰͎̓͗g̴̡̨͛̋͐ő̷̡̫t̶̮̟̩̩̂ ̵͈̲͍̃̓͝ă̸̘̽ ̸̡̐̍̇͝w̵̡̔̆͗͑h̸̛̖͈͗̈́́i̷̗̱̦̅̄̄f̵̜͎̣̑͝f̶̫͕͆ ̷̛̣̰̱̐o̶͖̘̬̰̓̋̆f̷̡͚̎͋ͅ ̷̺̥͗͑̐̔į̸̼̞̯̓͛͝͠ţ̷͎̄̓̉͝,̸̢͍̅̐ ̶͚̬͙͐̈́ͅb̶̡͎̆̽͑͠u̴̩̠͊̇̓t̴͓̱̾͛̆ ̴̼̾̀̚a̷͉̽̕s̶̭̝̫̞͑ ̷͈̮̈́w̷̞̎̆͝ë̴̝̰̭̫́͒ ̶̰̯͆̌́w̵̢͎̒͐̆ẻ̸̝̍͋ŗ̷͖͍̳̔́̀͝é̷̮͚̔ ̶̢̫̯͗͗͝g̶̯̹͔̹̕ȩ̴̺͔̍̆̅ṯ̵̆ť̸̥̕͘i̵͓̫͇̎n̷͓͒ḡ̶̭̜̫̠͊̕ ̶̌͛ͅr̵̤̦̗̆̚e̶̡̹̖̰͐̆̉̀â̷̠d̴̰̣̾̔ÿ̷̛͎ ̸̝̎̃̐ṫ̷̪͒o̴̗̠͗̃̌̕ͅ ̶͙̬̬͊̕j̶̨̗̙̇͜u̵̼͓̘͓͊͋̚m̵̞̟̓p̴̭̹̼͚͛̓̈́͝ ̸̼̘̤̳̓ș̵͓̳͛͆̈́h̵̻̔i̶̳͔͓͙͐͂͑p̸̱̟̄͛ ̴̯͓͈̘̒b̶͎̮͌e̶̛͖͉̟̎̊f̵͎͙̽̍̚o̷͍̎͝ŕ̶̬͛ẹ̴͋̅̽͆ ̶̡̩͋̂̏ḩ̸͓͑̂͘̚į̶̰͇͇̀͘t̴̯̾̔ṫ̵͓̄̓ḯ̸̗̺n̶͔̭̙̈́͝g̷̢̬̪͑ ̸͚̐t̸̯̘͓̲̆h̵͔̝̲̝͂e̷̠̗͉̤͊̎̅ ̸̲͉̭̘͒̏͛̚d̶̳͓̭̰̑̎̑o̸̘͙͖͛̓c̷͓͙͑̊k̵͎̰̪̍̃̽y̸̼̓͌̊a̵̙̮͇̻͊͑́r̵͙͎͙͌̕d̷̲̳̿̓s̸̡̪̬͒̒̍̈ ̴̹̒Ḯ̴̟̄͂ ̶̢̺͋j̸̢͖̊͒̉͜u̴̫̇̈́̿ś̷̨̘̠͋̚ț̶̤̹̬̋. I couldn’t go without one last goodbye. I mean, he knew I wasn’t gonna come back, n̵͍͖̑͋̋̈̇̍̎͝ȍ̵̢̒̍͐̽͋͘ ̴̺̑̕m̸̡̦̫͚͈̫͑̆̓ą̴̘̺͕̟̽̑͑͒͜t̸͚̮͖̪̩̽͊̽̄́̇͒ť̵̛͔̲̮͛͌̎͝e̸͚̼̺̟̅̅́̋͜r̴̢̡̡͕̺͉̾̅̑͌͜͠ ̴̥̻̈́ĭ̸̪̙͋̔̈́͂f̶̛̟̦̻̈́̂͒̃̓̄͝ ̷͎͊̾́̏́͗L̴͉̹͛̊̀̋ô̷̢̱̬͍͖̲̟̎̄̑̓͒̌͋u̵̢̹̻̜͍͎̜̭͆̔̇́̕ ̷͇̪͗̎̐s̷͎̮̪͔̠̯͆͂͐́͌͝ṳ̷̠͈̲̼͕̰͕̽̎̄̃͌ȑ̸͇̖̝̥̒͆͗͗̄̇v̸̫͔͓́͌̓̕i̷͖̙͐v̵͈̝͔̲́͊̋e̷̻̫̣̥̼̫̠̻̚d̸̗͖̻͎͠ ̶̢̬͍̙̥̞͗̃̋̆̉̒͜͠͠o̷̫͐̈́̾͊͑͌r̸̻̠̺͙̪̎̓͋̈́͌ ̸̨̫̫̯̤̟̏n̸̼̖͉̩̖̅͊̒̔͘͝ơ̴͍̋̎͋̈̉͑̋t̵̿͌̈́̔̈͘͜. But he did so fucking much for us.</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>I left him something, ̵̲̙͖̙̋̔f̸͍͛̀̏̈́̊ơ̴͈͊͒̓̍u̷̲̰̓̏̈́n̵̠̖̭̣̤͊͆͠d̴̻̩͉͕͒ ̶͇̰͆̃̅h̶̰̪͇̥͖̽̌͗͗͑ḭ̶͚̽͑̽s̷̡̬̺̫̈́̎͝ͅ ̷͈͉̊̂c̸̢̳̰̱͊̈͊ā̷̱͕͔͓͆̅s̶͉̺̬̰̍̃̉̐ě̸̤͉̫͐̅ ̷͈̲̻͔̽̕į̷̢̤͈̪͌̇̆̓n̸̳͖̥̜͗̅͋͝ͅ ̶̥͆̀ṯ̷̨̨̹̑͝ͅḩ̷͇̥́͊͐͗͝ͅe̶̥̟͑̃̌̿ ̵̨̗̿h̶͈̊͘͘o̷̧̓͐͆̕l̶̪̜̗̪̓̿̿̓d̷̝̬̽͗̾,̶̝͐̈̈ ̸̯̤͛͝ȃ̷̩̃̾̏͜͝n̸̢̙̺͍̐̚d̵͎̮͈͈͐͆̈́ ̷̝̫̭̦̥̃͒͘s̵̫̫̒̈́l̷̢̺̉̅̽i̵̜̪̍͑͘͘p̵̞͓̐͋̔p̴̡̗̺̥͑̿͝è̴̹̔̀̚̚d̴̰͎̞̼̈́̊͊ ̴͓̌̿͜ị̷̤͕͙͉̾ṋ̷̼͇͒̐ͅ ̵̧̦̻̺̭͑͊ạ̴͆͋͂̚ ̴͖͙̐͐́p̶̻̫̩͓̋̋̀̐͝ͅi̶͉͚͇͓͛̈́ͅe̵̢̙̔͂͜c̷̨̙͋͛e̴͎͂͐̓ ̷̟͛͌ǫ̵͎̈͂f̷̳̲̤̄̅̔̚͝ ̵̼̹͌͂̕p̷̞͕̈́̃̅͠ä̴̧̼͕́̚̕͜ͅp̴̗̟͐̉͗̕e̵͓̤̗̹̓̿̄̀r̴̖͔͇͎͂͂͑̋ ̵̛̫̌̑I̸̺̜͙͉̥͐̓ ̷̝̻̒̇̓n̶͖̐̿i̵̬͛̈́̅͗̚c̵̟̀̿̂̔k̶̮̗̑̊͌́̚ė̸̼̬̟̱͐d̷̨̐ ̷̻̜̫͈͋͘ḟ̴̱̜ṙ̶̰͕͠͠o̸̼̟̿m̷̧͖̅̅ ̷̹̣̟̭̊̃͋̄̎t̴͇̖̦̮̟̂̓͛h̷̥̻̭̦̕ͅę̴͒̐̊͘͠ ̶̦̙̥̝͊͂͐̃ó̸̢͋̽̊̌f̸̢̡̙̉͒̚f̷͎̩͍̿͝͠i̴̘͚͠ĉ̷̬̟͛̿ė̷̩̃s̶̞̮̍̐̔. Put her little handprint on it, just so that he’d know, y’know? He’ll get it. I hope.</em>
</p><p class="western"><br/>...</p><p class="western">Something hitches in my throat. So Deadman <em>had</em> known something about Sam after he’d disappeared. No wonder Deadman always got that far-off look in his eye whenever he spoke of Sam.</p><p class="western">He was probably thinking about what Sam and his BB were doing at that moment. If they were okay.</p><p class="western">The next handful of entries have warning symbols on them, with pop-ups saying they can’t be opened because the files are damaged. A distant humming through the ground around me suddenly catches my attention. I check the terminal, which shows a mini-map with a train symbol approaching.</p><p class="western">“Must be ahead of schedule,” I say as I pick myself up, stowing the journals away for another time. In moments, the hum grows into a rumble beneath my boots, the floor shaking with such force I wonder momentarily that it’s not actually an earthquake. But then the terminal pings and the porthole in the floor slides open with a hiss, and an automated voices requests that the designated cargo be loaded onto the platform.</p><p class="western">“Huh. Guess that’s me,” I murmur as I step gingerly onto the little platform. Keeping my arms tucked into my sides, there’s a ping of acknowledgement, and the platform descends into the earth, and the whole world goes pitch black around me. After about a thirty second descent which my whole body decides it does <em>not</em> like at all, the chute opens up and the platform slides across a rail over the top of the train, which sits like a huge worm in a low-lit tunnel. One of the train cars upper hatches slide open, and there’s a hiss and the little platform under my feet begins to tip upright. I slide off it with a small yelp, straight through the hatch and into the cargo hold, landing on a small pile of cargo crates with a thump before sliding off and hitting the floor.</p><p class="western">“Ouch,” I manage to groan before there’s some automated voice over head, muffled by the now closed roof hatch, and the train jolts and begins to move forwards. I dust myself off and settle onto one of the crates, checking my cufflinks map. With any luck, it should only take a few hours to reach the outskirts of South Knot City from here. Much better than almost a full two days hike. I rub my eyes in the darkness, and try not to think too much about how similar it is to being in that tight, dark little cargo chute.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Disembarking the train was something I hadn’t really planned much further for other than <em>jumping</em> when it started to slow, and without really meaning to, I Beach-jumped as I leapt from the train car’s couplings. It’s a strange sensation like momentarily flying through high winds, then frigid cold, then landing and stumbling into a roll on the other side. When I picked myself up again, I found I’d managed to jump completely clear of the Railway by almost a couple of hundred meters. The distant walls of South Knot City rose up far to my right as I looked back towards the train, now disappearing into another tunnel to take it back underground as it enters the city.</p><p class="western">The Beach-jump softens the landing, and after checking to be certain I’m just tumbled and winded, I begin to make my way further south, skirting right around the city limits. A few times I spot a few large trucks making patrols around the outer walls, but I’m far enough away likely just look like a vague shape in the distance to them, and am completely ignored.</p><p class="western">Another hour and a bit of trekking brings me to a Prepper’s shelter on the edge of the river where it joins what looks like a vast ocean. It could simply be another crater-formed lake, or maybe I really have reached the south-west edge of the continent already. At the edge of the water, there’s a small jetty, with an assortment of box like structures and large pieces of equipment attached to thick braided cables and buoys.</p><p class="western">I steer clear of the perimeter scanner poles that mark out the shelter, checking my map to be sure I’m on the right course. This isn’t the Prepper I’m looking for – that’s for certain. There’s an air-brushed mural on the side of the shelter that decorates it with fish and a large, colourful octopus, with a stencilled name in the middle of it proclaiming the owner’s ID.</p><p class="western">
  <em>Marine Biologist.</em>
</p><p class="western">The Prepper shelter I’m looking for is still further south, and I doubt a former MULE would become a Marine Biologist, of all things. With a sigh, I move past the shelter and keep going, checking in on my map every once in a while to make sure I’m still heading the right way.</p><p class="western">The sky is starting to darken, the sun lowering behind the endless banks of clouds by the time I finally find the damn place – I ended up heading in the wrong direction three times before getting frustrated enough to scream into the sky. Finally, <em>finally</em>, I find the entryway to the shelter – nestled tightly into a set of boulders that hide it almost completely from view. This one is very much a standard Prepper’s shelter, however – nothing like Valentine’s place at all. I access the terminal and wait for a response, but instead of being greeted by someone on the other end of a chiralgram, the door leading down into the shelter itself creaks open.</p><p class="western">I’m tempted to just...wait for someone to appear, but after several minutes of just not knowing what to do, I approach the door and give it a push to open it wider. Still, no one shows and no voice comes over the speakers. I wonder...Echo had said that this guy, this former MULE, also used to be an acquaintance of Heartmans. I wonder if Heartman managed to reach out to the guy, give him a heads up. Holding onto that vague little hope, I take a step onto the ramp and head down, the door quietly hissing shut behind me.</p><p class="western">It’s dark inside, lit only by the emergency lights running in strips along the floor.</p><p class="western">“Hello? Anyone down here?” I call out tentatively, and as I reach the end of the hallway into the shelter, someone finally replies.</p><p class="western">“Elle?”</p><p class="western">I stop, dead in my tracks. The voice came from right around the corner. Not from my cufflinks. Someone is here, someone who <em>knows </em> me. And that voice…I round the corner after a moment’s hesitation, and my jaw hits the floor. Standing there in the middle of what looks like a lab office is someone I was very much <em>not</em> expecting to see here.</p><p class="western">“What the hell – <em>Deadman</em>?!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oh boy this one has been sitting on the backburner for a while - more of a filler, in-betweener chapter than anything suuuuuper story progressive. After being sucked back into my teenage obsession for FFVII having played the remake, I'm now getting back into Death Stranding. i'm determined to get this sucker written. </p><p>see you guys in the next chapter c:</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Long Way From Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle faces an uncertain, disturbing reality.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">
  <span>Deadman and I stare at each for a long moment, before he breaks into a welcoming smile, and I’m running to him before I can stop myself. I hug him so tightly he makes an </span>
  <span>
    <em>oof</em>
  </span>
  <span> of surprise, but then he’s wrapping his arms around me too, holding me tightly. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Easy, Elle, easy,” after a moment, he sets me back with a chuckle, holds me at arms length. “Goodness. It’s only been a little while since you last saw me in person, no need to be so clingy.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What? It feels like </span><span><em>forever</em></span><span> Deadman –” I say as he turns away and picks something up from his work desk. Turning back to me, he takes my hand in his. “How are you even here? Are you hurt? What about the others – </span><span><em>ow!</em></span><span>”</span></p><p class="western">I look down to see Deadman pulling a semi-cuff off of my wrist, little pinpricks of blood welling up underneath my jumpsuits sleeve.</p><p class="western">“<span>What the </span><span><em>fuck</em></span><span> did you do that for?!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Adrenaline test…positive,” he replies loftily as he turns back to his terminal. “Higher than expected, actually. What’s gotten you so worked up?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I stare at Deadman, open mouthed. He looks...just like he did before. Before all of this happened. Completely normal, unharmed, unworried. Just like he did th</span>
  <span>e</span>
  <span> morning this all started, so far away back in East Knot. He’d jabbed me for an adrenaline test then, as well.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle? Are you feeling all right? Did you sleep well?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I...what’s going on?” I take a small step back from him as he watches me curiously. “This isn’t right. We’re – we can’t be in East Knot.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Of course we are, where else would we be?” Deadman raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re obviously distressed, Elle. Come and sit down. Was it the nightmares again?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He pats the observation chair next to his terminal, and despite every fiber of my being screaming at me that this is wrong, that I have to leave, my heart hurts suddenly at the thought of turning around and leaving. I realize just how desperately I’ve missed Deadman’s presence, how comforting the sound of his voice is. I sit down.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Something here is so very wrong, I’m not back in East Knot, I </span>
  <span>
    <em>know</em>
  </span>
  <span> I’m not. I have to fight the desire to believe I’ve woken up from the absolute nightmare that the last however many days has been. It </span>
  <span>
    <em>has</em>
  </span>
  <span> been real...hasn’t it?</span>
</p><p class="western">Deadman busies himself at his terminal for a moment, before turning back to me.</p><p class="western">“<span>Your blood sugar levels are looking quite low – have you had breakfast yet?”</span></p><p class="western">I shake my head.</p><p class="western">“<span>Can’t eat anything big this early,” I say numbly. This is just like before. “Makes me sick.”</span></p><p class="western">He turns to go over to a shelf where I know he’ll reach for a jar of cryptobiotes; then he’ll shake the jar, open the lid and let one float out. He’ll insist I eat it. My stomach is doing flip-flops, from hunger, disgust, and a swelling feeling of dread.</p><p class="western">“<span>Wait – stop.” I start, and Deadman turns. “Don’t offer me a cryptobiote. I won’t eat it.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What? Don’t start this again, Elle,” he sighs, taking the jar off the shelf anyway. “I know you don’t like them, they aren’t the best for taste. But it’s important. You must keep your energy up.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I don’t want to,” I want to cry, at just how much I don’t want to believe this is happening. My throat </span><span>tightens</span><span> and I swallow hard.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He pauses, hand half-unscrewing the lid of the jar, </span>
  <span>a</span>
  <span> look of alarm on his face as he watches me shake my head and rub at my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?” He gingerly puts the jar of Seam coral and cryptobiotes down on the desk </span><span>and comes</span><span> over to take my hands in his. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I don’t know,” I mumble, squeezing his hands. He feels so real, so tangible. “I don’t know and I’m scared, I’m so scared. I thought you were in Capital Knot. You’re being held hostage by Pandora – ”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Pandora?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Terrorist leader. Of the Homo Libertas. They took us in East Knot and hi-jacked the network,” I furiously wipe at my eyes to keep any tears from falling. “You helped me escape to warn Fragile. Pandora murdered President Die-Hardman in front of the whole continent, broadcast it all over the Chiral Network.”</span></p><p class="western">Deadman’s eyes seem to widen a little more with everything I say.</p><p class="western">“<span>I’m on...I’m on a mission. We’re trying to re-take the network by flooding it with data by stranding together DOOMS sufferers,” I continue. “Fragile helped me across the Lake, I stranded with a botanist left behind by Amelie, I rescued an abandoned Bridge Baby and I</span><span><em> died</em></span><span> but apparently I’m a repatriate, and Pandora was going to kill Corrin but we got away...I was meant to find this guy close to South Knot. Then...I don’t know. I’m here.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Well </span><span><em>that’s</em></span><span> certainly </span><span>quite</span><span> a story,” Deadman says finally as I pause to catch my breath. “But I promise you, Elle, it wasn’t real. You’re here, safe in East Knot, with me.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>No, no this is wrong – </span><span><em>Deadman</em></span><span>, please – ”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Easy, Elle. Gently. You’ve had an episode again. A DOOMS vision. This happens, remember? This has happened before. You were lucky you were already here at the Distribution Centre, who knows what would have happened if you were alone in your apartment...” he squeezes my hands gently before letting them go, shuffling back over to the terminal. “Perhaps you fell and hit your head? What else do you remember from this morning?”</span></p><p class="western">He begins to check me over, but I force myself up. I can’t keep doing this, I have to get out of here.</p><p class="western">“<span>Stop, </span><span><em>stop</em></span><span>.” I say, pushing away his stethoscope. “Listen, whatever this is, isn’t real. You’re not actually here, you’re still captive in Capital Knot. You have to be. This is all fake.”</span></p><p class="western">Deadman finally sighs and, throwing his hands up in the air, steps back.</p><p class="western">“<span>All right, all right. Have it your way. If you really think you’re out in the middle of the continent, where you’ve never been before, go on. Go outside and see for yourself.”</span></p><p class="western">Without waiting for him, I spin on my heel and run for the door. I’m running up the ramp and out into the open, the sky dull with the clouds still thick overhead.</p><p class="western">
  <span>But my heart drops. I’m not out in the barren, open red-dirt lands of the southern Central Region. I’m not outside the Prepper shelter I thought I had entered after getting lost three times along the way. I’m standing at the mouth of the Distribution Centre, looking out over the bland concrete ground. The morning light shows the security fence and force-field ringing around the open space of the outer-city checkpoint where the Distribution Centre sits. I turn, and there’s the city walls of East Knot, blurry in a haze of morning mist. The other direction shows mountainous inclines and grassy wilderness, suddenly very alien to me again. </span>
</p><p class="western">Like I’d never left.</p><p class="western">“<span>I...I’m really home?” I feel like I should be happy, </span><span><em>ecstatic</em></span><span>, that all I thought I’d experienced in the last several days, all the death and the fear and the loneliness, was all just a strange and terrifying vision, or a dream. But I can’t help but feel so overwhelmingly lost. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>You see? You’re all right,” Deadman comes up the ramp behind me. “These things happen, Elle, but you’re okay now. Come, let’s head over to the medical bay in the ICU building, get you properly checked over.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>A strange numbness washes over me as Deadman puts his hand on my shoulder, like all the colour has drained from my body, and </span>
  <span>I can’t do more than let Deadman guide me. I sit quietly on a gurney and let a couple of nurses take my blood pressure and temperature, monitor my vitals. When they ask, I tell them I have a headache, </span>
  <span>and they</span>
  <span> tell me to lie quietly for a while. They say I’ve likely had a trauma response to a particularly bad DOOMS episode, </span>
  <span>and am thus given a mild sedative to relax me. </span>
  <span>I’m dismissed from working down in the basement levels of the Distro Centre for the day. I’m told that someone else will take my shift down in the Chiralium Dispensary sector. This is…right? Isn’t it? I was definitely in the ICU building when the terrorists attacked. When I...thought they had attacked. Deadman was with me then...and Wickerman...</span>
</p><p class="western"><span>Trying to piece together all the strange mismatched events I was so certain I’d lived through feels like an impossible task. The weirdest and most vivid</span> <span>déjà vu</span> <span>I’ve ever experienced. Deadman calls in to check on me via chiralgram once or twice, but other than that I’m mostly left alone for the day to try and sleep off the headache. I don’t want to sleep, but when I eventually do, I awaken on the Beach. </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I get up slowly, brushing the grit from my arms as I watch the tide roll endlessly in to shore. The cold air is a welcome change from the warm and stuffy med bay. The silence broken only by the waves on the shore is much nicer than the bustle of noise of staff and nurses going back and forth. Eventually, I climb to my feet and pick my way along the Beach. It feels like I should be keeping an eye out for something, but I can’t put my finger on </span>
  <span>
    <em>what</em>
  </span>
  <span> exactly. </span>
</p><p class="western">As I walk, I begin to notice stringy, inky-black webbing winding its way among the rocks and dead sea life that litter the shoreline around me. The further I go, the thicker and more bulbous the strands become, until I’m almost doggedly following the webbing along, trying to find its source.</p><p class="western">
  <span>It starts to grow, in larger and larger clumps and stringy veins, until a giant, quivering mass of it comes into view, wobbling like jelly in the wind. It seems to be pulsating, like a heart. I cast my eyes around – now I’m really looking, this thing is </span>
  <span>
    <em>massive</em>
  </span>
  <span>, and its tendrils have spread as far as I can see, way off into the distance. It covers the dead sea life and the rocks like an inky cobweb, and I’m reminded of the long, thin scars on my palms. Looking down, I wonder why. There they are, but how did I get them again?</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Suddenly, the earth under my feet trembles and a deep rumbling like thunder breaks across the sky. The clouds begin to darken on the horizon and the tide recedes almost completely, leaving a </span>
  <span>broader</span>
  <span> strand of shoreline making the vastness of the place seem even greater. As I stumble over trying to stay upright, the humongous </span>
  <span>
    <em>thing</em>
  </span>
  <span> before me </span>
  <span>rises up and turns towards me.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>It doesn’t exactly have a face, but a great gaping maw that is enclosed by a huge </span>
  <span>C</span>
  <span>hiralium plated mask </span>
  <span>bearing</span>
  <span> dozens of claw-like teeth. It clatters its teeth at me in a deafening chattering racket, before looking up at the sky and bellowing. I scramble back, only to back straight into someone who grabs me by the elbow and </span>
  <span>spins me</span>
  <span>. There’s a man gripping my arm, and I swear I’ve seen his face before, with its unusual scarring and wolfish grin, but I don’t have time to say anything before he turns me and gives me a shove back the way I came.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>This one ain’t your fight, kiddo,” he drawls, unslinging what appears to be a large assault rifle from over his shoulder. Cocking it over one arm, he fishes what looks to be a large golden coin out of his pocket. “</span><span>And you ain’t looking so crash hot. </span><span>But I’ll let ya call this one. Heads or tails.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What?” I breathe, looking from him to the towering creature before us, which appears to be trying to </span><span><em>dig </em></span><span>into the shoreline. Instead of sand and rocks, however, it </span><span>begins</span><span> to unearth actual objects. Books, tables, cars, building rubble, old-fashioned gravestones, entire shelving units – as if it’s unearthing an entire towns worth of stuff. “What is it doing?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Call it, kid,” the man growls, his expression turning sour. “Heads or tails. Before it swallows everything here.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>As he speaks, t</span>
  <span>he </span>
  <span>creature</span>
  <span> begins to consume everything it’s digging up, hundreds of items and objects just disappearing into its massive gaping orifice, taking with it huge areas of the shoreline, and the ground beneath our feet shakes and the sky cracks with booming rolls of thunder.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Hurry</span><span><em> up</em></span><span>!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Tails!” I shout over the sound. I can hardly stand anymore, the tremours all around us are so bad, but the man remains upright and flips the coin expertly off his thumb and forefinger, sending it spinning high into the air. It catches some thin shard of light, reflecting it back into a bri</span><span>lliant</span><span>, upside-down rainbow high above us. </span><span>The flash and the brightness hurt my eyes, and it</span><span> catches the monstrous things attention, and it </span><span>stops</span> <span>and</span><span> turn our way again.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Good call,” the man grins, catching the coin and tucking it away before hoisting up his gun. “Now it’s time for you to leave this one to me.”</span></p><p class="western">The creature roars deafeningly at us, sending flecks of Chiralium and bits of half-chewed rubble flying our way, before beginning to drag its enormous, gelatinous form towards us.</p><p class="western">“<span>What are you going to do?” </span><span>I</span><span>t feels like a stupid sort of question, seeing as he actually has a weapon, but the man just huffs lightly as he takes aim. He glances over his shoulder at me.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What I’m meant to do,” he sighs, his expression suddenly tired. “Keep the entity safe, ’til the slate is wiped clean.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I watch numbly for a second as </span>
  <span>the thing</span>
  <span> lumbers towards us, and the man fires several warning shots at its masked face, pinging harmlessly off the golden armour.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>I told you to run, girlie,” he calls over his shoulder as the thing rears up above us. “Hurry, before it devours you too. It sure looks hungry.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I hardly need to be told twice – the creature is easily the size of an entire Distribution Centre – so I turn tail and run. More gunshots </span>
  <span>crack</span>
  <span> behind me, and I turn back, suddenly gripped by fear for the stranger I so easily left behind. He flashes in and out of existence, appearing and disappearing like a darting little bird around the monster, firing off shots before flashing away again. </span>
  <span>It</span>
  <span> howls and swats at him with huge paws tipped with talons the size of my arms, but its movements are slow and clumsy in comparison to his. He almost looks like a dancer, spinning and side-stepping so gracefully as he </span>
  <span>takes on the </span>
  <span>cosmic monstrosity.</span>
</p><p class="western">Forcing my feet forwards again, I run until there’s nothing left in me to run with. My legs give out and my lungs ache sharply for air, and I crawl on my hands and knees until I’m wheezing for breath. Here, there’s no more sounds of the fighting, only distant rolls of thunder from far behind me. The waves have started to come in again, lapping around me as I keel over and stare up at the sky, my teeth chattering with the cold splashes of water hitting my body.</p><p class="western">
  <span>What had he said before? </span>
  <span>A different dream</span>
  <span>, he’d said something to me. I’m sure of it.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><em>Better wake up before you forget how to.”</em></span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Suddenly I recall</span>
  <span> how he’d shoved me into the waves. Could this work? Could I really escape the Beach in my dreams this way again? I push myself up and wade into the shallows, ignoring the freezing cold. Maybe if I escape this place, I can escape the other place, the wrong place. Which one was the wrong place? The hell-scape I’d been thrown into in a terrorist attack? Or the surreal feeling of being back home, just woken from a bad dream?</span>
</p><p class="western">In that moment, I don’t care, I can’t bring myself to care, all I want is to wake up. I plunge into the surf, wading deeper and deeper until suddenly my feet don’t touch the bottom anymore and I sink so fast I don’t even have the time to be surprised by it.</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle, Elle!” There’s a voice in my ear, and I scramble back into consciousness, immediately falling off the cot I’ve been laying on. Shaking myself awake, I look around. I’m not in the med bay anymore – this place is hauntingly familiar and I feel bile rising up in my throat. “Elle, are you with us? Over here.”</span></p><p class="western">I look up, and there’s Deadman standing on the other side of a large plexiglass wall, waving to me. He offers me a sorry smile, and I swallow back the horrible feeling in my mouth.</p><p class="western">“<span>What have you done? Why am I in here?” </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>This is where I had to stay, in quarantine – in </span>
  <span>
    <em>captivity – </em>
  </span>
  <span>when I was first brought in to BRIDGES. An isolated cell with padded floors and no sharp objects. A </span>
  <span>
    <em>psych</em>
  </span>
  <span> ward. It was all they had on hand three years ago, and it was apparently all they thought the strange little girl brought in from the cente</span>
  <span>r</span>
  <span> of a crater needed. Deadman had eventually been the one to allow me out of it, once the chiral contamination in my cells had stopped and receded, but the accelerated aging process still remained. Once I was eventually deemed </span>
  <span>
    <em>not a danger</em>
  </span>
  <span> to anyone.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>It’s all right, deep breaths,” Deadman says from the other side of the glass, pressing a hand to the transparent wall. “You were placed in here for your own good. You were having a night terror – thrashing and scrambling in your sleep. In here, you’re safe from harm until this episode passes.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Deadman, let me out,” I stand, looking around me – </span><span>and something in Deadman’s balled fist catches me eye</span><span>. “</span><span>Is that – </span><span><em>that’s my pendant Deadman!</em></span><span>”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>My panic turns to a burning fury and I throw myself as hard as I can at the plexiglass wall. I bounce off, but I leap at it again, pounding my fists on it in Deadman’s face. It’s enough to make him take two steps back in shock. </span>
  <span>Good. How dare he take it from me, whilst I was unconscious?</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle, stop, don’t you dare try and break the glass</span><span>,” he replies sternly with a frown. It accentuates the surgical scar dotting along his forehead, </span><span>and he holds up my broken pendant in his hand</span><span>. “Whatever you were suffering from earlier has obviously had some serious psychological repercussions, and it’s best you ride it out here. You know this. We’ve gone through this before. </span><span>As for this...it’s so full of Chiralium, it’s entirely possible that you’re suffering from another form of Chiral poisoning. I’ll hold onto it until we’re certain that it’s not what’s causing these episodes of yours.</span><span>”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I bite my lip and hold myself back from pounding my fists against the plexiglass </span>
  <span>again</span>
  <span>. All I want is </span>
  <span>
    <em>out</em>
  </span>
  <span>, every fiber of my being is saying </span>
  <span>
    <em>get out –</em>
  </span>
  <span> but Deadman isn’t exactly wrong. There </span>
  <span>
    <em>were</em>
  </span>
  <span> times in my adjustment period between being released from isolation and commencing my employment at BRIDGES where I’d had breakdowns, I remember those. Nights of crying uncontrollably without reason, days where I couldn’t even acknowledge anyone’s presence. Trauma responses. That’s what they’d been called. And I would spend a night or two here, medicated in isolation, to get me through it. </span>
  <span>But the fact that he took from me the only thing that has ever truly been </span>
  <span>
    <em>mine</em>
  </span>
  <span>. Bile threatens to rise up in my throat as I feel tears prickling my eyes.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Please give it back, Deadman. </span><span>I’m </span><span>not sick. You’ve never taken it from me before</span><span>,” I try, but Deadman shakes his head.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I’m sorry Elle, but until the readouts improve, you’re staying in there </span><span>and this is staying with me.</span><span>” </span><span>H</span><span>e motions to a terminal to one side, flicking his wrist to activate it via his cuffs. A chiralgram screen pops up on my side of the glass, showing an active heart monitor and brain wavelength scan. Wordlessly, I reach up and touch the side of my head – sure enough, there’s a tiny little patch on my temple; a neural reader and transmitter, giving them all kinds of information on my mental and emotional state. Another thing I’d come to despise about being locked in here. The constant monitoring and poking and prodding had been exhausting and maddening.</span></p><p class="western">I do remember that.</p><p class="western">
  <span>I remember </span>
  <span>
    <em>hating</em>
  </span>
  <span> it so badly.</span>
</p><p class="western">But after a moment with nothing more than a sad look on his face, Deadman leaves silently, giving me a small wave goodbye. The cell lights dim a little bit – ‘mood lighting’ he’d once called it – to relax the occupants.</p><p class="western">
  <span>I’m almost wishing I was back on the Beach, facing down whatever insanity I’d left behind. What had that creature even been doing? Tearing up the Beach, consuming it… with little else to do, I eventually lie back down on the padded cot, and try to block out all thoughts and sounds. </span>
  <span>Without the weight of the pendant laying against my skin,</span>
  <span> I don’t know what’s worse; what must be happening on my Beach right now, or what’s happening here. Whatever ‘here’ really is.</span>
</p><p class="western">The next time Deadman appears, he apologises for being away so long. I don’t understand why, and I can’t focus on anything he says, but I hear his voice and it’s comforting, sort of. I ask for my pendant back, but he shakes his head no. I don’t hear him say it. A nurse comes by every once in a while to bring me a tray of food and water, but my stomach wants to crawl up out of my throat every time I consider eating. All I can picture is cryptobiotes floating around inside my stomach, trying to get out my esophagus.</p><p class="western">
  <span>I spend most of the time in a weird, vague state between sleep and wakefulness, completely dissociated from my surroundings. How long will Deadman keep me in here? Too much longer and I’m almost tempted to try breaking the glass for real.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Again, he returns after some time with another apology. He didn’t mean to be away so long.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Why do you keep saying that?” I call him on it, and he looks up from the terminal on the other side of the glass. “You said that a few hours ago when you were last here.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Hours?” Deadman repeats, pushing his glasses a little higher up his nose. “Elle, it’s been nearly two weeks since I was last here in person.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>What? No, you were just here.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Elle, I was called back to Capital Knot for a summit. I told you that when I left. I got back this morning – how are you feeling? I wonder if perhaps you’re experiencing lost time due to the isolation,” </span><span>h</span><span>e says, frowning with concern. Something in the back of my head wants to panic. A whole two weeks? Have I really been here that long? Deadman speaks again before I can formulate another question. “I’m going to call in a specialist – well, someone more attuned to these sorts of neurological breakdowns.”</span></p><p class="western">Without realizing it, a tear runs down my face. I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat.</p><p class="western">“<span>You…</span><span>t</span><span>hink I’m having a breakdown?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I think you’ve had an intense excess of stress, something has triggered this – </span><span>most likely the excessive amount of Chiralium leaking from your pendant and into your system,</span><span> and now your mind is trying to compensate to protect itself. Hence the feeling of lost time, or gaps in time that you’re experiencing,” </span><span>h</span><span>e replies, pulling up his wrist to access his cuffs. I absently run my hand over my wrist; they’d taken away my cufflinks when I was first put in here. There’s nothing but red marks on my skin to ever tell that I’d worn </span><span>at all</span><span>. “I don’t want you to worry, Elle. These things happen, and we’ll get through this. You’ll be back to life as normal with BRIDGES in no time.”</span></p><p class="western">BRIDGES. Something about the word makes me want to argue with him, but I’m too caught up in the fact that I’m obviously suffering some kind of mental snap to really focus on anything else. He thinks I’ve broken, my mind is broken. If he could help me, he would, but he can’t. So he’s calling someone in.</p><p class="western">“<span>Who’s going to come and see me?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I look back up to the glass, but Deadman is gone. Perhaps long gone. How long was I lost in thought? Did he even say goodbye? A very sad, very lonely feeling wells up in my chest and I huddle back as close to the wall on my cot as I can, with my back to the glass so no one looking in can watch me cry.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">The next time I’m really aware of being conscious, there’s a tall man sitting across from me at a table in an empty room. It’s an interrogation room, but the walls are a soft grey and the table has two cups of tea sitting on it, steaming gently.</p><p class="western">“<span>Are you with me, Elle?” </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He has thick, dark brows and a curved nose. Intense eyes. Thick black hair brushed back away from his face and loosely tied in a ponytail over his shoulder. Deep creases line his face with age.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Yes.” My voice is quiet, hoarse. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>I’m Quill. Remember me? We met last week.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yes. Deadman called you.”</span></p><p class="western">The man, Quill, smiles. He has dark skin that make his white teeth stand out.</p><p class="western">“<span>That’s right, good girl. Do you remember what we talked about in that session?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I shake my head. I can’t remember what happened before I even got here. Only Deadman’s occasional presence outside my ward has really registered in my brain recently. I still haven’t been let out. I’ve been losing more and more time. It doesn’t even surprise me that it’s been a week since our first session.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>That’s okay. I was looking over the notes Deadman gave me of the visions you’ve been having. These are...very distressing, to say the least. He and I have both been hoping you’d be feeling better now, now that you’re safe here at home again,” Quill says, his voice gentle. He takes his cup of tea in both hands and sips it; the sound of the cup being set back on the table is almost too loud for my ears, and I flinch.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I’m not home.” I mumble. “But I don’t know what’s real anymore and you want me to forget. Because it’s painful, or because you’re just cruel. It doesn’t matter. You don’t care.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I do care,” </span><span>Quill says softly.</span><span> “I care because Deadman specifically requested that I help you through this; you’re very special to him, you know. He called me in because I am the closest BRIDGES can get to a DOOMS-sensitive specialist.”</span></p><p class="western">I huff, something like a half-hearted laugh and a snort.</p><p class="western">“<span>Why didn’t he call Heartman? Or Fragile? They have DOOMS too,” I reply, staring at the table. It’s easier to pretend he’s not actually there, just some voice floating in the air around me. Suddenly he’s no longer standing across the table from me, but he’s leaning against a wall off to my right. “If any of this place is actually real, they could have helped me.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>They tried.” </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I can’t help it, I look up at him. Quill cocks his head, taking to walking slowly around the room, his footsteps oddly silent. “You don’t remember? They were here, just a few days ago. Heartman was here on a research trip, and Fragile came and sat with you for a few hours, even though she’s never met you before. She came because Deadman asked her to, because you’d been talking about her. You really don’t remember?”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>No, I </span><span><em>don’t</em></span><span> remember,” I snipe back at him. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>They</span><span> w</span><span>ere</span><span> here, Elle. </span><span>Just a few</span><span> days ago.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I. Don’t. </span><span><em>Remember</em></span><span>.” I growl, and something angry is starting to coil under my skin. “I’ve only met Heartman once. Via chiralgram. </span><span>And Fragile saved my life</span><span>.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Quill shakes his head and chuckles softly as he moves, drifting silently, around the room.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>It was just a vision, Elle. Something your mind made up and your DOOMS affliction scared you with.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I remember I was trying to do something important. I was looking for someone, for people, to help us. To stop </span><span>anyone else from dying</span><span>.” I say, and Quill nods along. He circles around behind me, pausing. I refuse to look back at him.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You can insist on this all you want, but the truth is right here in front of you. There is no Pandora and there has not been any terrorist attacks or murders here in the Knot Cities, not for a long time. Your mind is addled, confused, mixing up your nightmares with your experiences of the real world.” he says. “That’s why I’m here, Elle. To help you through this. Get you back on track.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I stare at my hands, in my lap, and I don’t reply. I wish he’d go away, that he’d stop looking at me and telling me all these things that keep messing up what I think I know. I feel confused, and angry, and tired – so goddamn tired.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Don’t say my name,” I say softly, biting back more tears. I haven’t seen my own reflection yet today, but the last time I looked in the little vanity mirror above the sink in my cell, there were dark red rings around my eyes. “You have no idea who I am. I don’t know you. </span><span>I won’t bend to you.</span><span>”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>But we could know each other, Elle,” Quill replies. “You just have to trust me that I’m going to help you.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I feel his presence right behind my chair, and suddenly his hands, icy cold, rest on my shoulders. I bite my lip so hard it hurts trying to ignore it, to focus on the spiralling steam from the cup of tea sitting in front of me – anything but to give in and acknowledge Quill. But the chill spreads through my bones, until I’m shivering, I’m shaking and I can’t stop – </span>
</p><p class="western">The next thing I know I’m back in my cell. My things have been packed into a large case in the corner, locked for safekeeping. Quill’s voice still bounces around my head incessantly, and when I scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands, my eyes feel puffy and hot. I can’t stand him. He has no clue who I am.</p><p class="western">But who am I now? Just delirious little Elle, having another bad day with her DOOMS. I’m hardly even Elle anymore...my pendant with it’s missing letters, it’s sole, roughly carved ‘L’ had been what had given me the name of Elle. A joke, between Deadman and I.</p><p class="western">
  <span>I go over to the sink and run some cold water, splashing it on my face and letting it run over my hands. The mirror activates and goes from opaque to reflective, and my own </span>
  <span>eyes</span>
  <span> stares back at me.</span>
</p><p class="western">Where did my BT mark go? The handprint that was once stencilled onto my face, covering my cheek and reaching over my lips and nose, is gone. I feel odd for having not noticed it before. What else am I missing, I wonder. What else do I recall having that isn’t there anymore?</p><p class="western">
  <span>Tugging down my shirt, there’s no ugly claw-mark on my chest from my repatriation. Did I ever</span>
  <span>
    <em> actually</em>
  </span>
  <span> repatriate? Now that I really think about it, I find myself determined not to doubt myself. Quickly, I run my hand down my side, poking and prodding at the soft skin at my hip, searching. I pull up the lip of my shirt – nope, there’s no needle mark </span>
  <span>that would suggest I’d </span>
  <span>hooked into </span>
  <span>a</span>
  <span> BB pod before.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The BB pod, the Bridge Baby. So many things I thought I’d collected and found along my misadventure to try and save the UCA, gone. Maybe...just like my pendant, Quill took them away, too...no BB, no BT or repatriation marks…</span>
</p><p class="western">...no Strand?</p><p class="western"><span>I go over to the locked case, first prying at it and then trying the pass code. It beeps, refusing to open, and a message flashes across the little screen above the keypad. </span><span><em>PIN Incorrect</em></span><span>. God only knows what the hell kind of number combination could possibly make up the correct sequence. Seven digits. I’m screwed. It couldn’t be a birthday – a name is a possibility, but I can’t think of anyone’s names that have seven letters. </span><span><em>Deadman</em></span><span> and</span><span><em> BRIDGES </em></span><span>have seven, but the case just prompts me to try again. I don’t really know how long I spend hunched over that case, plugging in sequence after sequence, but nothing works, and eventually exhaustion takes over, and I crumple into a little heap. When I wake up, I’ll figure it out. I’ve got to get into that damn case, it’ll have </span><span>a big, travelling backpack inside</span><span>. </span><span>My pack.</span><span> I’m sure of it. If my pack’s inside, it will have my Strand talisman from...that lady. The woman in the wheelchair. He</span><span>r</span><span> face is indistinct and blurry in my mind. </span><span>I haven’t thought of her for so long...</span> <span>and i</span><span>f I don’t have my pendant to hold onto, I might really forget everything.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>But it has to all be in there. That will prove that I’m right. It has to...</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">The Beach is beginning to break. It looks like a deserted war zone, deep furrows of shoreline churned and entire pieces of the ground are literally missing, leaving an open, blank space. Boulders have started to float in the sky, alongside decimated carcasses of sea-life hanging in odd formations.</p><p class="western">
  <span>I think about that creature, wreaking havoc. I wonder about the man who flipped the coin, what happened to him. Strangely, I can’t find it in me to really worry about him. Or the state of the Beach. It’s all just inconsequential now. I sit on the shoreline and stare out to sea, listening to all the distant sounds of the waves and wind in the jagged rocks.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Until there’s another sound, something that catches me off guard. </span>
  <span>A</span>
  <span> little way up the Beach there’s </span>
  <span>a </span>
  <span>
    <em>splat</em>
  </span>
  <span>, and then I spot it – a splash of Chiralium is flicked up into the air just above the ground. </span>
  <span>As I approach,</span>
  <span> I see what it’s left behind; two inky black handprints and a little floating trail of chiral flecks hanging in the air in a semi-visible cord. </span>
</p><p class="western">The handprints continue, splatting into the ground around me, completely oblivious to my presence. With nothing left to lose, I reach out, catch the little strand of floating Chiralium between my fingers. It’s strangely silky in my hand, and suddenly there’s a voice.</p><p class="western">“<span>Is someone there?”</span></p><p class="western">And just like that, there’s a man standing before me. Blonde hair and glasses, dressed in a plain white button-down shirt and black pants. He turns to me, and I realize that I’m gripping the back of his shirt.</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I – </span><span>you</span><span>?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>It’s him, it’s the man with the yellow box strapped to his chest from the chiralgram in the ICU. His face goes from shock to a smile in an instant, and he grabs my hands.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle, thank goodness,” he says, chiral tears running down his face. “I’ve found you!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You’ve been...looking for me?” I ask a little numbly, </span><span>his name finally finds it’s way back to my tongue – </span><span>Heartman – </span><span>and he</span><span> shakes his head as if to clear it. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>In a fashion, yes. What’s happened to you? Echo called in days ago, said you’d completely disappeared off the face of the earth again. No one’s been able to contact you – Mama and I have been combing </span><span>an endless number of Beaches</span><span> trying to find your Ka should you have died and been unable to repatriate again.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>His words are like waves breaking over my head, and the haze in my head </span>
  <span>begins to lift</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Where’s Deadman?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>He’s here, or there, if you rather. We’re all still in Capital Knot, all still very much prisoner under Pandora. She attacked Port Knot, sent in the Gardnos to wreak havoc.” Heartman says quickly. “Listen, I don’t have long here until I’m revived. Tell me what happened to you, hurry.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I don’t know, really. I was looking for someone, I kept getting lost. I think I found the right place but when I went inside, Deadman was there. He said I’d never left East Knot, none of...anything had actually happened. I was put back into the isolation ward, everyone kept saying I’d had a breakdown. It’s been weeks,” I gush, trying to pick as many details as I c</span><span>an</span><span> recall. “A man named Quill came to see me –”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Quill?” Heartman cuts me off, a note of excitement in his voice. “You mean – tall, older Native American Indian man?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I have no idea, he told me you were here, you came to see me to try and help me.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Well I’m here now, and let me tell you Elle this is both exciting, terrifying </span><span><em>and</em></span><span> fascinating. Quill </span><span><em>is</em></span><span> the man you’re looking for, but he’s a powerful DOOMS sufferer, and I think I know what’s happened to you.” </span><span>T</span><span>he little heart-shaped icon on the unit strapped to his chest starts to flash. “Bugger. I don’t have much longer. This is going to be difficult, but you must believe me when I tell you you’re going to be all right.”</span></p><p class="western">For the first time in forever, this feels true. It feels right.</p><p class="western">“<span>You’ll help me?” </span><span>M</span><span>y voice sounds pitiful and meek in my ears. I’m probably crying.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I used to be well acquainted with Quill, I can help free you from this. His powers lie in manipulation and coercion of the mind. He’s something of a dream-weaver, if you like,” Heartman says, his tone rising in urgency as a little voice from the unit says something about five seconds to resuscitation. “I’ll be back, Elle, wait for me. We’re stranded together now, and I know you feel beached on your own, but hold – ”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>In a flash of light, Heartman disappears, leaving behind nothing but dancing specks of Chiralium in the air where he’d been standing. I’m suddenly very cold without him, and my whole being feels empty again. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Don’t...don’t go,” I murmur, sinking to my knees. But he’s already long gone.</span></p><p class="western">Somewhere between staring out into the endless ocean in the gaps between the chaos wrought across the Beach and losing all track of time entirely, I wake back in my isolation cell. The lights have been dimmed right down, and there’s little movement outside. I have no idea what the time is, but the dimmed lights in the hallway outside the plexiglass wall suggest sometime in the night.</p><p class="western">
  <span>I go back over to the case containing all my things. I have to keep trying, I have to remember. I have to hold on to what Heartman said. We’re stranded together now, even if I feel alone. I sit cross-legged in front of the large silver case, and stare at it. I barely remember why I’m so desperate to get into the damn thing now, just that it’s important. </span>
  <span>
    <em>Stranded</em>
  </span>
  <span>. Too many digits to work. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>But… ‘beached’...” I murmur, and plug in the corresponding numbers. There’s a soft hiss, and the lid of the case unseals, popping open with an affirmative beep. </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I quickly drag out everything inside – my boots, crusted with red dirt and grit, my jumpsuit with dark and dried blood peeling off the gloves and sleeves where my nose had bled from my Beach-jump across the river. The more I pull out the clearer the details become. I was </span>
  <span>
    <em>right</em>
  </span>
  <span>. My pack comes out last, and I quickly fumble for the top of it, searching. And there it is – the beautiful, vibrant red rose pinned to the top, the talisman given to me by Valentine.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span><em>Valentine</em></span><span>,” I whisper, internally kicking myself for thinking I could </span><span>ever </span><span>forget. Her face is clear in my mind now, the lines of age at the creases of her mouth, the deep russet brown of her eyes. Her long curls of hair falling down her shoulders. She’s real, and here’s my proof. </span></p><p class="western"><span>I really don’t know if I’ve got the time to wait for Heartman’s help. All I know is that I’ve got to find a way to get free </span><span><em>now</em></span><span>. Looking around, there’s very little in the cell that could be used to escape. Nothing to smash the glass except my fists, no way to pry open the door. </span><span>Digging around in my pack, I find the Chiralium bladed knife, the one Corrin let me keep, and I stow it away up my sleeve. Violence is going to have to be a last resort, I decide, but I can’t risk</span><span><em> not</em></span><span> having it.</span> <span>Otherwise, there’s n</span><span>othing that </span><span>c</span><span>ould outwardly alert </span><span>and call</span><span> anyone to me here in the cell...except for the neural transmitter, still on my temple. </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Giving it an experimental tug, there’s a sharp sting from where the tiny metal needles have sunk into my s</span>
  <span>kin</span>
  <span>, and I hiss out a curse. Gripping Valentine’s hairpin in my hand, I grit my teeth and try again – with a yank, the transmitter comes free, and in the distance there’s a faint sound like an alarm. Good. That’ll get someone’s attention. Footsteps </span>
  <span>come clattering from outside</span>
  <span>, and I collapse to the ground in a pretend faint – if it looks like I need medical attention, I’ll be removed from the ward.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Sure enough, someone opens the door and several nurses run in, calling for a gurney to get me down to the med bay. I let myself go completely limp as I’m dragged up and rolled onto the gurney. </span>
  <span>They take from the room and</span>
  <span> down several winding hallways. Surely the ward was never this far from the med bay.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <em>It’s not</em>
  </span>
  <span>. Cracking my eyes open, I spot an inky black handprint on the wall, tar dripping down from the mark. Is it Heartman? I don’t wait to find out – I push myself up and tumble off the gurney, scrambling up and away from the grabbing hands of the medical staff. I run as fast as I can in the opposite direction, Valentine’s hairpin clutched close to my chest as I hear the </span>
  <span>staff</span>
  <span> calling for more help, for backup. </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>The whole place is a maze – perhaps it always was. Some kind of topsy turvy mind maze, made to confuse and disorientate. I pass my own isolation ward three times, the same offices several more. But I keep running, refusing to let my legs give out on me. </span>
  <span>More</span>
  <span> handprints appear on the walls now, almost matching my pace as they appear. I wonder if Heartman is there, trying to find a way in. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Elle!” Deadman is around the next corner, and just beyond him is a door. A way out. “Elle, stop, hold on!”</span></p><p class="western">I have to stop; he’s the only thing between me and the door now. He holds out his hands in a pleading gesture.</p><p class="western">“<span>What happened, Elle? Talk to me,” he says, his eyes worried and his hands open, reaching for me. “It’s okay now.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You aren’t really here,” I manage through gasping breaths. “You’re just a figment of my imagination. And I’m leaving now. I’ve had enough.”</span></p><p class="western">Deadman sighs reproachfully.</p><p class="western">“<span>How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not yourself right now? You’ve had a really rough couple of weeks Elle, but everything we’re doing here is for your own good,” he says, but there’s something fuzzy about his outline, almost like a chiralgram. I step forward. “You have to stay here, until we can get you back into a more stable state of mind.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I swallow hard. It hurts, having to remind myself that this Deadman is not </span>
  <span>
    <em>my</em>
  </span>
  <span> Deadman. My Deadman, the real one, is locked up some</span>
  <span>where</span>
  <span> in Capital Knot. He’s </span>
  <span>been </span>
  <span>beaten and bruised and he’s relying on me to succeed. Everyone is. I rub the fabric of the rose hairpin between my fingers. I have to hold onto it, it’s the only strand I have to the truth right now.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You’re clever, with all this masking and deception,” I say slowly, and he raises an eyebrow. “But there’s so many things you </span><span>don’t know.</span><span> The Director of BRIDGES was with Deadman and I when East Knot was attacked; </span><span>and I never once said his name and so he has n</span><span>ever</span><span> once shown up here – I think Director Wickerman would have been </span><span><em>very </em></span><span>interested in my mental breakdown </span><span>if he were actually here. You took away everything you could to convince me that I haven’t been on this hellish journey; you took my pendant, my scars and you might even be trying to destroy my Beach with whatever the hell that monster out there is – but you can’t take away my Strands. </span><span>I’ve lived and experienced every single thing you’ve tried to tell me is false and you nearly, </span><span><em>nearly</em></span> <span>had</span><span> me. Whoever you really are – Deadman, Quill, I don’t care. You thought you could steal and lock away all the things that would remind me of the truth but it didn’t work. You might be strong but </span><span><em>I am stronger</em></span><span> and I </span><span><em>will</em></span><span> get out of here.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>With that, I pull the Chiralium knife from my sleeve and launch at the visage of Deadman – here is the final test of truth – he stumbles back in surprise, but I </span>
  <span>can’t back out now. I put as much force behind the blade as I can, and stab downwards into Deadman’s neck. He makes a strangled noise, but there’s no blood, and it’s as if I’ve stabbed into a wall of rock instead of a person. </span>
  <span>The figure of Deadman finally recedes, fading away until the tall man who called himself Quill is standing in his place. His eyes are hard, </span>
  <span>and his hand is wrapped around the blade of my knife – he’s caught it, stopped my strike, before I managed to actually stab him</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You’re certainly a hard rock to crack,” he mused, </span><span>and now there’s blood running down his hand, but he doesn’t let go of my knife</span><span>. </span><span>I spy t</span><span>he chain of my broken pendant is h</span><span>anging</span><span> around his neck, the chunk of metal tucked into the lip of his shirt. “Typically, souls that wander into my Beach are much simpler to convince. But in you walked, body and all, and immediately rejected the reality I presented you. Your emotional state made you pliable, to an extent, but instead of allowing me to re-write your understanding of reality, it made things much, much more complicated. I’ve clearly underestimated you.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He reached up with his free hand, squeezing my wrist hard to make me drop the knife. I wrench back my hand from his grip, and he tosses the knife away, blood splattering across the walls and floor.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>This is your Beach?” I ask </span><span>cautiously</span><span>, and Quill nods. The walls and floors of the building fade and sink away until we’re standing on a deserted stretch of Beach – unmarred by destruction like mine. And yet still, the door behind him remains. “What happens when someone stumbles in here?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Think of it like a spiders web.” He replies, </span><span>eyeing me warily, as if concerned I’m going to pull out another weapon</span><span>. “It is...something of a self defence mechanism, something I developed a long time ago. Should someone manage to get into my shelter, they wake on my Beach. The Beach is an intangible and terrifying rift between our worlds, so there must be some immediate relief; placation. Relieve any emotional distress with visions of someone familiar and comforting. Placating the mind eases stress, and I then simply remove their physical presence. They awaken, slightly confused, but believing they simply had the strangest dream. It’s unsettling enough that their minds never </span><span>desire to</span><span> seek out my home again. </span><span>L</span><span>ike an inherited sixth sense, if you will, a learned fear warning to keep away.”</span></p><p class="western">I think back to how I’d been so happy to see Deadman, and yet so completely confused.</p><p class="western">“<span>How do you do it?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>When you step into my Beach, our Ka become vulnerable to each other. It allows me access to your mind, your memories. I build a plausible and believable world that gives you a sense of home. But you were adamant to refuse it. Why is that?”</span></p><p class="western">I bite my lip. East Knot has never felt like home.</p><p class="western">“<span>It doesn’t matter. What matters is you let me out of here. I’ve got shit to do and if I have to find someone else to strand with, someone who won’t try and destroy my mind from the inside out, I will.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You’ve been spouting things an isolationist like myself doesn’t want to hear, Elle. Terrorist attacks and chaos in Capital Knot. I left that world behind and I have no intention of allowing it to invade my life.” Quill lets his shoulders droop a little, and he sighs. “If what you’re saying is true, then you have my sympathy. But you do not have my help. And I cannot simply allow you to leave, and infect others with this fear and weight of despair you carry on your shoulders. You will bend to me, eventually, or I will break you. It is that simple.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You think I’m some kind of...you think I’m crying wolf about all of this?!” I sputter, feeling a burning rising in my chest. “Everyone is in danger and Capital Knot City has been taken by terrorists who murdered the President in cold blood, live across the Chiral Network which they now have complete control over – and you think I’m </span><span><em>making it all up?!</em></span><span>”</span></p><p class="western">Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door behind him. We both turn to it in surprise, and after a moments pause there’s another polite knock.</p><p class="western">“<span>Are you...expecting someone?” </span><span>I ask, and </span><span>Quill frowns, pausing before reaching for the door handle. The door opens to show the Beach continuing on the other side, but there in the doorway stands Heartman. Quill makes an audible noise of surprise, and steps away as if he’s been zapped with a MULE’s electrified lance.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You?” he breathes, and Heartman steps inside, chiral tears immediately streaking down his face.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yes, old friend,” he says, smiling at Quill before </span><span>coming</span><span> to me, </span><span>wrapping me up in a hug before I can protest</span><span>. “Are you all right?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Was kind of hoping you’d show up sooner,” I say warily </span><span>as he releases me</span><span>, </span><span>and I look to Quill</span><span> who is staring at </span><span>Heartman</span><span> like he’s seen a ghost. “Really could’ve used your help.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>My apologies for the untimely intervention. My twenty-one minute life cycle may have felt like forever to wait here on the Beach, but trust me, it felt just as long to live through it myself knowing you were in such a tight spot,” Heartman’s smile grows, and Quill just stands there in stunned silence as Heartman speaks. “Please, allow me to play the mediator between you two a moment. Perhaps I can smooth out some of the creases, as it were. About twenty five years ago, I met this delightful gentleman in Mountain Knot City. We shared a common interest; researching and unearthing history laid to waste by the cataclysmic event of the Death Stranding, decades before.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Delightful?” I repeat, unable to keep the scoff from my voice. “Heartman, he’s trying to keep me trapped here. He wants to destroy me.”</span></p><p class="western">Heartman raises his hands apologetically.</p><p class="western">“<span>Time has not been kind to any of us, Elle. I fear </span><span>that Quill here</span><span> is of little exception,” </span><span>h</span><span>e says, and Quill looks away, clearly extremely uncomfortable. “But he and I were once comrades, you could say, in our mission to unearth the past, and piece the world back together through information and knowledge. This was, of course, before the unfortunate circumstances that lead to my, well...my current condition of a life-death cycle, and we spent many months buried in our work.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Please,” Quill says softly, and we both turn to him. “You do not have to pretend as if we are still any sort of...associates.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Contrary to what you might believe, Quill, I’m well aware of your reasons for leaving,” Heartman says, and there’s a note of sadness in his voice. Turning back to me, Heartman continues. “You see, Elle, digging up as much of our past as we could resulted in some very interesting finds regarding our personal ancestry, even before the days of having the Chiral Network at our disposal. Quill discovered quite the spiritual side to him, linking him back to his heritage of the Native-American nation of the Comanche. We had had some...disagreements about what was possible to recover, and what was forever lost to the strange new world we lived in. We parted ways in our research for a while due to our divided outlooks, and at the same time Quill had embarked on a journey to </span><span>try and find said history</span><span>, I was unfortunately involved in the twin voidout incident up in the mountains which took the lives of myself...and my family.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I recall hearing Deadman speak about ‘another scientist’ who lived way up in the snowy mountain region, and if I’m putting two and two together correctly, he must have been talking about Heartman. I also recall seeing the chiralgram displayed on the </span>
  <span>walls of the ICU ward,</span>
  <span> depicting two craters so close together they formed a heart-shaped lake. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>That’s why you get called Heartman, isn’t it?” I murmur softly, and Heartman nods with a small, reserved smile.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yes, and no. Long story short, I might have come back, as despairing as I was over the loss of my family, but I was also despairing the disappearance of my friend,” Heartman turns back to Quill, who looks up and meets his eyes at last. “Because despite the distance our differing opinions had put between us, I really could have done with someone at my side.”</span></p><p class="western">Quill swallows thickly.</p><p class="western">“<span>I...I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t come back,” he said softly. “So I stayed away. I left the cities, returned to what little roots I had left. </span><span>Followed my father’s stories beyond the bounds of </span><span>civilisation</span><span> and went back to the world beyond it. You were...I thought you were dead. I wasn’t…I couldn’t bring myself to come back</span><span>.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Despite the horrific state I was in, I was certainly very lucky. Not everyone gets a second...third...sixtieth chance at l</span><span>ife</span><span> every day</span><span>,” Heartman shrugs, </span><span>chuckling a little sadly at his joke</span><span>. “But when all was said and done, you were my friend. My confidante. And when you never came back, I begged what few Porters were roaming to search for you. Just to see if maybe we </span><span><em>could</em></span><span> connect again. But those that must have found you, came back horribly shaken, speaking of nightmares so distressing because of how realistic they were, and I realized you had put your DOOMS to work, to keep everyone away. So...I stopped searching for you.”</span></p><p class="western">I feel a little awkward, watching these two men awkwardly confess their lost connection to each other. In the moment of silence, they share a long look, before Quill takes a deep breath and flicks a glance my way.</p><p class="western">“<span>She is one of yours, then?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>She is the hope of our survival,” Heartman says proudly, and I feel my cheeks heat up. “Elle has been sent to restore hope, to strand with others like herself to be able to re-take the Chiral Network, which has indeed been hi-jacked from the UCA, and the UCA itself is in great peril. Everything she will have told you is true.”</span></p><p class="western">Quill takes a moment to look my over, studying me with narrowed, cautious eyes. I shift awkwardly from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under his gaze. Finally, he steps aside, and shows me the open door.</p><p class="western">“<span>Very well. Come on out, Elle. Let us talk face to face, one DOOMS sufferer to another,” he says, and I swallow, hesitating. He takes a deep breath. “It seems I must ask your forgiveness, for what I have put you through, and for not believing in your words.”</span></p><p class="western">I glance at Heartman, still standing between us, and I think about something I’d read in one of the reports about the Aversion. Connecting the UCA via the Chiral Network between cities and waystations and prepper shelters, was all very much like tying strands of rope together, to create a longer rope via knots. Here, Heartman stands like a knot between my end of the rope and Quills. The bespectacled scientist reaches out his hand, offering me a small smile. There’s a look of hope on his face, and I realize that this is so incredibly important to him, too. Quill must have meant the world to him, sometime long ago. As I take Heartman’s outstretched hand, the heart icon on his AED flashes.</p><p class="western">“<span>I can’t be with you when you return to Quill’s shelter,” he says softly as we step towards the door. “But just know that Quill will hear you now, and it should not take much at all anymore to strand with him.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I’m not really sure I </span><span><em>want</em></span><span> to strand with him,” I murmur a bit reproachfully. “He tried to destroy my mind. He said he couldn’t let me leave and ‘spread this despair’ or whatever to others.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Oh, he’s one to talk,” Heartman rolls his eyes with a light chuckle. “Trust me, Quill has done plenty of despair-spreading in his own right. The least he can do now is hear you out, </span><span><em>properly</em></span><span>. And he knows this.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>We draw level with Quill, who nods at me.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You still have something of mine,” I say, holding out my hand. The corners of Quill’s mouth tugs up in a smirk, and he hands over my pendant.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Truly a unique force of will you’ve got there,” he replies, and I hold his gaze as I loop the chain back over my neck. Like holding the hairpin in my fist, the moment the pendant settles against my skin it’s like another veil of mist has lifted over my eyes, and the Beach around us becomes just that little bit clearer and in-focus. </span></p><p class="western">Heartman leads me through the door, and I feel Quill’s presence at my back. I hear the door swing closed behind us, the Beach fades away into darkness. There’s that automatic little voice from Heartman’s little yellow box, echoing in my ears in the black.</p><p class="western">“<span><em>Five seconds until resuscitation. Stand clear for shock administration. Five...four...three...two...one...”</em></span></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sooo this is a chapter I've been writing and rewriting...then straight up ignoring for a while because I've been so uncertain about it. but i've got it to a point where it's pretty coherent and i'm happy with it, so here *yeets*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Voices in the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>in which Elle discovers that there is still some good left in the world.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">
  <span>I’m vaguely aware of being jostled, like someone shaking me from sleep. It feels like I’m hanging, suspended in the air, and then there are hands under my shoulders, lifting me up, pulling me into a carry hold against their chest. I’m reminded of the embrace of that woman, on the Beach. I wish, hazily, that I could hear her soft voice again. </span>
</p><p class="western">She’d made everything seem okay.</p><p class="western">
  <span>Peeling my eyes open, I look around blearily. Quill is there, and he’s lifting me out of a hammock of sorts – no, in the darkness it looks more like a giant spiders web; thick, gooey ropes of Chiralium strung from wall to wall. His face becomes lit with candlelight as he carries me across the room, before lowering me onto a thin mat rolled out on the floor.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Are you with me?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yes,” I breathe, my throat feels hoarse and dry, and the next thing I know, Quill is holding my canteen to my lips. “What – ”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Sip, slowly,” he says, deep lines carving age into his forehead, accentuated by the flickering light coming from far corners of the room. I do as he says, and then he gingerly lays my head down against my pack. I feel the soft fabric of Valentine’s hairpin brush against my cheek.</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>A glance around shows a low-lit room covered in paintings, all over the walls, with candles lining corners to illuminate a ceiling that has several dozen dream catchers hung from it. Artefacts are hung between the paintings, round objects and long, carved wooden pieces I can’t discern. A strange scent like old leather fills the room, permeated by another, and I spot a thin smoking rod </span>
  <span>perched on a box</span>
  <span> occasionally dropping pinches of ash. </span>
  <span>I</span>
  <span>ts wispy tendrils of smoke drift lazily through the air.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Incense,” Quill says mildly, having noticed my staring. “Cedar and rosewood, a rare find in the world these days. Had to fight off the others for it.”</span></p><p class="western">I sit up slowly, eyeing him. He looks much older in person – I wonder if the Beach captures a likeness of a person as they imagine themselves to be, and yet in the real world, age has caught up with him. Over his shoulder, I notice the giant web, hanging across the entrance to the room. Once again, Quill follows my gaze.</p><p class="western">“<span>You weren’t kidding when you said it was like a spiders web,” I murmur, and Quill gives a small, wry smile. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>It developed on its own,” he says. “The longer I spent down here, the more I dreamt, the thicker the tangles grew. I used it to my own advantage – to turn others dreams upon them, give me the chance to get them away from my sanctuary.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The web glistens softly in the little bit of candlelight that reaches that far across the room. I look up at the dream catchers. They’re roughly hewn, handmade – most of them even look like they’ve been crafted from </span>
  <span>things</span>
  <span> like wire and synthetic materials, but there are some that look more natural, bound of wood and string.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>And...what are they for?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>At first I was hoping to ward off the growing phenomena, to cleanse my dreams of the horrors that invaded my waking life from the other side,” he says quietly. “It hardly worked. DOOMS has a strange way of circum</span><span>navigating</span><span> a lot of things we place superstitious worth into.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Drawing my knees up to my chest, I gesture at the paintings and objects hung on the walls.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Yours?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Replicas,” he nods. “I could only ever replicate what records showed of pre-Stranding era Native American Indian art and culture. I tried to capture the likeness as I saw it.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The paintings are rough, like they were done without brushes or tools, perhaps by hand. They depict great rolling plains, with dark skinned men riding horseback, chasing herds of bison. Peering more closely at the objects hung between them, I realize I’m looking at taut, leather-skinned drums and shields adorned with feathers. Spears and clusters of arrows with sharp fletched tips. I’m grateful for the archives of stuff Deadman gave me access to, back when I first came out of isolation and started to work for BRIDGES. At least Quill’s paintings of his Native American ancestors look somewhat recognizable to the archived prints and photographs available on the Network.</span>
</p><p class="western">The Network. <em>Deadman</em>. I feel a sharp chill run down my spine as I remember why I’m here.</p><p class="western">“<span>The Chiral Network,” I begin. “Capital Knot – how long was I out?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Four days, as of this morning,” Quill replies as he gets to his feet. Four days. Holy shit. It’s better than thinking I’d lost weeks of time, but still...so much could happen in just four days. Quill clears his throat, and I look back up at him. He gestures to my cufflinks. “I’ll let you catch up on what you’ve missed.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He turns to leave through a dimly lit doorway across the room from the tar web. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Hey, wait a minute,” I say, and Quill looks back over his shoulder at me. “So that’s it? No apology for literally trapping me within my own goddamn mind on your Beach? No explanation for yourself for why you’re so violently against the UCA and why you shut everyone out?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Quill holds my gaze for a moment with an unreadable expression, </span>
  <span>before simply turning and leaving. Before I have too much time to be gobsmacked, my cufflinks ping.</span>
</p><p class="western">Activating them, I’m immediately bombarded by several dozen messages – a lot of them from senders I don’t recognise. They look like spam – junk mail. I ignore them, instead opening one of the earliest ones with an ID I do recognise – Heartman.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Elle,</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Heartman here, we met briefly in East Knot whilst visiting Rihana. I’m hoping you’re all right, however Deadman has just advised me that you appear to have disappeared from the sub network and have remained unresponsive for the last few hours. Your main contact, Echo, made us aware that you were heading south west in search of a Prepper to connect with before your disappearance. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Reply back to any of us as soon as you receive this message, please. We’re all incredibly worried about you; we can’t afford to lose the hope of our nation at a time like this. I will be searching as many Beaches as I possibly can for you when I’m able, but Beaches are vast and infinite – and it might take longer than you have.</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Kindest regards,</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Heartman</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>It’s kind of touching, knowing that Heartman was one of the first to reach out to me when I disappeared. There’s messages from Deadman and from Echo, but the next message that catches my eye is, surprisingly enough, one from Valentine. I hadn’t expected to hear from her yet – if ever, really.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Dear Elle,</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Where have you gone? I fear for your safety, child. You seem like the type to walk straight into the mouth of hell without ever questioning it, and now we are stranded, I have been able to feel where you go. It’s like a feeling in the atmosphere, a shift in the wind. Last night, I was hit by a wave of nausea like I’ve never felt before, and I was certain something terrible had happened to you. You’ve...disappeared, somehow? Like you’ve fallen into a dark hole I cannot see the bottom of. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Please be careful, Elle. Although we have only just met, your tenacity has inspired me; come back to us, reach back and please, let me know you’re all right. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Yours,</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Valentine.</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Once again, there’s a warmth in my chest that grows as I read through her concerned message; despite the weight of my current predicament, it’s kind of nice – the feeling of being missed, having someone worried about you. I scroll quickly through the reams of messages, several from Deadman, one from Corrin – I wonder if he knew something happened to me – before finally opening one of the multiple junk messages. It’s all completely nonsensical, jumbles of letters and numbers. If it’s some kind of code, I have no idea how the hell to decrypt it. All the junk data messages are from different sender IDs, but all of them are just the same mumbo-jumbo as the text within the messages themselves.</p><p class="western">“<span>What the fuck,” I murmur as I finally reach the top of the message list again, and find the most recent message is from a new sender as well – but at least this one has a readable ID tag.</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>Lockne-Malingen.</em>
</p><p class="western">The dead engineer? The woman with two souls? I can’t keep a lid on the curiosity, so I open the message. It’s dated barely five minutes ago.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Hey there kid</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Welcome back to the land of the living – Heartman just told us the good news. We feel like we owe you an apology, you’ve probably just found several bazillion undecipherable messages in your inbox. That ones kinda our fault. Because we’ve never met in person, unlike you and Heartman, we have no basis for a connection to you other than your cuffs ID tag. It was an experiment on our part, to see if we could actually create a connection using the Beach and the BB’s we’ve got limited access to here in Capital Knot. Every single piece of junk data you received is from an individual Bridge Baby. If we ever get the chance to meet in person, I’ll show you the bubs’ cool little trick on how we made it work. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Guess it didn’t work as we’d hoped though, as you weren’t able to establish a connection with any of them despite every effort. It doesn’t help that you wouldn’t have known what to look for, but we had to try. Heartman can walk every Beach he can find, but we had to resort to measures that weren’t going to raise as much suspicion. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Regardless, welcome back, and we’re sorry for the spam mail. We’re just lucky you managed to connect with Heartman and make it back. </em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Keep fighting the good fight kiddo. We’ll be in touch.</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Lockne-Malingen.</em>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Well...I guess that explains that. I look back through the list of spam messages. Every single one of those...came somehow from a Bridge Baby? They must all be still hooked up in the still-mother labs, probably deep in the isolation ward in Capital Knot. I wonder how Lockne-Malingen was able to access them, if she’s being held prisoner like everyone else.</p><p class="western">
  <span>Shaking the questions away for the time being, I reach up to deactivate my cuffs only to stop in shock. My finger nails are easily a whole inch longer than they were before – I look like I’ve got talons protruding from my fingertips. How did they grow so fast – ? I quickly grab at my hair, and a wave of dread washes over me as I realize that the</span>
  <span> ends</span>
  <span> of my hair has grown longer as well.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p class="western">Four days I was trapped on Quill’s Beach. Meaning that for four days, my physical body went without medication to stop it from ageing at an accelerated rate. Scrabbling for my pack, I dig around for the little case full of pills, having to drag half of my stuff out before I find the case, and pop two without even stopping to think. Quill has returned, standing in the doorway and watching as I scull water to wash down the meds. He raises an eyebrow at the scattered stuff around me.</p><p class="western">“<span>Did you lose something?”</span></p><p class="western">I don’t know if I want to yell at him or explain. There was no way he could have known, right? But he’d said that he had access to my Beach, my mind, my memories. He’d picked out important details and made me think they were real in my dreaming state. Perhaps something that’s become a routine for me, like taking the medication, no longer counts as important in my own consciousness.</p><p class="western">“<span>I have to...take medication. Otherwise my body begins to age weirdly fast,” I mutter as I start gathering up the stuff I’d strewn around in my search for the meds. “Four days without it, and...”</span></p><p class="western">I hold up my hands, wiggling my fingertips to show off the long nails, before pulling my now three-inch-longer-than-it-was-before-hair around and showing the lengthened end of the braid I’d pulled it back into. I must stink like body odour and sweat, and probably Chiralium, too, now that I think about it. Four days is a long time to go without getting clean.</p><p class="western">“<span>Curious condition,” Quill says as he sits back down across from me. He sets down a box he’d brought in with him. “You have my apologies for not realizing. It wasn’t something I saw when I was constructing the false dream world.”</span></p><p class="western">I shake my head. There’s no point in getting more upset with him. After all, if he was so desperate to remain isolated, then taking into account everyone’s needs was probably the last thing he was concerned about.</p><p class="western">“<span>What’s that?” I ask, nodding at the box. Quill looks down at it in silence for a moment, before running his worn hands over its wooden surface. It’s plain, but it looks like treated pine – not something you see much of anywhere anymore, I’d imagine. I’d heard of Timefall-resistant wood becoming more widely used and manufactured, but things like these are closer to trinkets of a pre-Stranding time.</span></p><p class="western">Quill opens the box, and inside lies a golden feather, about half the length of my forearm. It has a slightly shiny, oil-slicked look to its surface, and with a blink of surprise I realize what I’m looking at – it’s Chiralium.</p><p class="western">“<span>A feather preserved in Chiralium?” I ask, and Quill actually lets a genuine smile cross his face. It makes his dark eyes crinkle at the edge, where the lines of his face run deep.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>High praise, but no. I carved this from Chiralium, when I first met the man you call Heartman,” he says softly. “We met in the </span><span>city streets in</span><span> the mountains – bumped into each other by chance. I dropped a book that he picked up and returned to me, and we found we had much in common. Our companionship grew over the years and...I made this as a gift for him, before our differences divided us. I never got the chance to give it him, however.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>He gingerly takes the feather from the case, holds it up so it catches the light of the candles. His eyes grow sad as he looks over his own craftsmanship. It hard to believe the level of detail in each part of the feather – he </span>
  <span>
    <em>made</em>
  </span>
  <span> that. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>What really happened?” I asked, and Quill shakes his head slowly.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>He wanted me to wait for him, so we could go together in search of what little might remain of my ancestral history. But I was impatient, I knew our time was short, </span><span>with Timefall washing away what little would have been left</span><span>. So I went without him, left him to undergo the medical procedure he was in need of, alone. I left the mountains, headed north east in my search, and the next thing I know, the whole world shook. Twin voidouts, right behind my trail.” Quill places the feather back into its case. “I don’t know what exactly happened, but word came that there were no survivors. If I had waited, we could have met our fate together, and nothing would have mattered. But I believed my friend had faced death and oblivion alone. Because of my selfishness.”</span></p><p class="western">There’s quiet between us – nothing moves save for the flickering candles and the dancing light they cast around the room.</p><p class="western">All Quill wanted was to find his family history. Damn. Is that so selfish?</p><p class="western">“<span>Wait,” I start, recalling something Echo had mentioned. “I thought you were born a MULE?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Not quite,” Quill laces his hands together and rests them atop his knee. “My father was a Prepper turned Porter; one of the first to fall to the Delivery Dependence Syndrome, they call it in the cities. Having no other family, I went with him </span><span>when he left to claim land for himself and a band of others who’d succumbed to the Syndrome</span><span>. But because I was not a Porter myself, I never fell to the dependency. But living in the wilderness beyond the confines of a bunker fascinated me, like the stories my father brought me up on, of our fore-fathers. What little history there was left, I craved. As I was preparing to leave the camp and make it on my own, we were attacked. Preppers who got their hands on some old-world weapons and caught a whiff of confidence...we were massacred.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Shit,” I breathe, and Quill nods severely.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I watched </span><span>as </span><span>my father and my family – </span><span>the men and women who’d taken me on as their own when we joined them some fifteen years prior – all of them</span><span> f</span><span>e</span><span>ll, ripped to shreds by bullets. I could smell the dead and the Beach and suddenly I could see the demons within the men who had attacked us. DOOMS came to me in my sleep and my dreams have never been the same. I survived because I ran with what little I had, and didn’t stop running, even after the screams had died from my ears.</span></p><p class="western">It was after that...several months later, I stumbled into a city in the mountains. Where I ran into a man, his wife and his child, and they caught my arm, pressed my precious book back into my hands,” Quill pulls something out from under the wooden box – a beaten and worn old paperback, practically falling apart in his hands. “The only thing I have left of my father, of the stories he’d read to me as a boy.”</p><p class="western">The cover is almost completely gone, but there’s a vague, faded illustration still on it, showing a cowboy and Native American Indian riding side by side on horseback.</p><p class="western">I’m reminded of that monster, on the Beach, consuming everything it dug up from the sand. Books had disappeared into its gaping maw by the armload.</p><p class="western">“Hey...when I was trapped within your Beach,” I say tentatively, and Quill raises an eyebrow. “Did you...was there some monster there? Destroying the Beach?”</p><p class="western">“It’s certainly not something of my creation,” Quill replies after a moment of thought. “It followed you in – I was aware of it, but it appears to be attached to you.”</p><p class="western">Something sinks in my stomach.</p><p class="western">“However, I don’t believe it’s of your creation, either,” he continues, and I glance back up at him. “You carry a great burden with your journey, and whilst your DOOMS afflicted the effect my Beach had on yours, that thing...is not something you’ve brought on yourself. It’s as if someone has bound it to you.”</p><p class="western">I think of Pandora, and wonder if there’s something she could have done. But then I remember the man on my Beach, flipping the coin. Perhaps I’m somehow connected to him and his battle against the monstrous BT – he had said something before, about how we go ‘way back’.</p><p class="western">“I don’t know,” I sigh and shake my head. “There’s just so much going on, I can’t keep track.”</p><p class="western">Quill nods sagely.</p><p class="western">“Another reason I chose isolation.”</p><p class="western">“You’re not helping,” I roll my eyes at him, only to realize that there’s a hint of a smile across his face. “Oh. Yeah – funny.”</p><p class="western">Quill reaches out and gingerly takes my hand in his, turning it over and running his worn thumbs over the back of my hand. Wickerman’s Strand symbol is there, like a brand mark over my skin.</p><p class="western">“You have already Stranded with others,” Quill says softly. “And there’s no real value in withholding a Strand from you. I cannot undo the past, but...if Heartman lives...perhaps I can mend some of the wrong doings.”</p><p class="western">“He did mention that you’ve done some despair-spreading of your own,” I snort, and Quill nods.</p><p class="western">“<span>Running with MULE’s will do that. And even after I struck out alone, I fell back into some of those ways. I have stolen and raided from others to survive. I have disillusioned and damaged many people who have fallen into my Beach.” He says, his eyes low. “I did not know how else to live, but selfishly.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I reach out and wrap my free hand over his.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>I’m no expert out here beyond the cities,” I reply. “But I kinda feel like that’s just how surviving has to work sometimes. We can’t proud of every move we make.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I think of the grandiose speeches I’d hear broadcast over the Chiral Network, back at BRIDGES – back before this whole rollercoaster had begun. Inspirational words of rebuilding a nation together, through mutual respect and connection and how in coming together we’d be whole again. It might have been an optimistic picture to paint, but realistically there’s no way it could have all gone smoothly without hitting snags that would have required a less orthodox approach.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>I think of Valentine. How Amelie Strand had left her behind with promises that she wasn’t being abandoned...and had then done just that to her. </span>
  <span>And I remember Corrin’s words, how he’d told me about the rumours surrounding the disappearance of Sam Porter Bridges. How a man who’d trekked across hell and high water for everything we have was immediately vilified for wanting freedom. All because fear of defectors and isolationists had pushed those in power to try and stomp out possible threats.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Those Preppers did the same thing to Quill’s MULE family. MULE’s may have the reputation of being dangerous raiders of cargo, with a growing aggression rate as of late, but there’s never been a report of a MULE raiding beyond its territory, or with the intent to cause grievous harm or murder.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Quill squeezes my hands gently, and I look up into his face. His eyes are kind, behind the stoic wall of severity he’d had in place. Leaning back, he reaches over to the box where the incense stick sits. From the box, he draws a half-made dreamcatcher. This one is made from wire and synthetic metal rods, likely taken from building materials. He unwinds part of the wire and pulls it free, before taking up the Chiralium feather from it’s box and threading the wire through a hole at the end of the feather’s shaft. He ties the ends of the wire into a knot, and then he presents the feather to me, </span>
  <span>now hanging from the wire.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Carry it with you,” he says as he lays into my hands. “I don’t wish to have any part in assisting the UCA, </span><span>beyond the rescue of my lost friend</span><span>. But I believe you shouldn’t be alone in your journey. I will guard your dreams, now we are Stranded.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Just like that?” I breathe, looking down at the exquisite detail of the feather. “We’re Stranded?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Girl, we were Stranded the moment you walked onto my Beach, and our consciousness merged. We don’t have to want the same thing, to be on the same side.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I give him a wry smile.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>I dunno, I feel like we’d both like the chance to see Heartman again,” I say, and Quill snorts softly, but he can’t deny his own smile. “I for one feel like I owe him a lot.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>So do I,” Quill nods along. “So do I.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>It occurs to me, half a day later, as I climb back up and out of the cargo chute from the train’s hatch, that I may have actually seen all those Bridge Babies trying to connect with me, back on Quill’s Beach. He’d sent me off with a few supplies, including a ladder to climb my way back up the chute, and once I’m back in Mama’s Lab, I drag it up with me and refold it before pausing to catch my breath. The Chiralium feather now hangs off of my pack, glinting in the meagre light as I feel the train rumble away from the subterranean station deep below me. </span>
  <span>I’ve busted several of my overgrown fingernails already on the return journey, and what’s left are blunt, angry nubs.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Thinking back over the dozens of junk messages on my cufflinks, I recall how as I ran through the corridors of Quill’s false world, I’d seen handprints appearing on the walls. I’d put it down to it being Heartman at the time, but now, it makes more sense to think that if he’d told Lockne-Malingen roughly where I was, however she’d managed to connect the BB’s and have them try to connect with me...those handprints were likely their attempts to break into Quill’s Beach. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Bridge Babies sure are something else,” I murmur to myself as I loosen off the zips of my boots to rest my feet. I didn’t stay long in Quill’s shelter after he’d gifted me the feather, knowing how much precious time I’d already lost, and the trip back away from the South Knot City area seemed to take half as long as it did to get there.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You can say that again,” Echo pipes up in my ear. “And speaking of BB’s, the little one you rescued has just been cleared for a return to duty.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>It’s okay?” We’d spoken briefly once I’d left Quill’s shelter, mostly to catch up on the goings on back east. From what Echo had heard from Fragile, the Capital was relatively quiet, however a </span><span>secondary, smaller</span><span> Fragile Express c</span><span>argo ship</span><span> was apprehended by the Gardnos and set sail across the Ground Zero lake the same night I got caught by Quill. Now, there’s apparently Gardnos moving in droves across the Central Region, and there’s no telling where they’re headed. Presumably, to turn over every </span><span>place </span><span>from here to the mountains. I had to get my butt moving again if I’m going to stay ahead of them – and I hadn’t even had to the chance to check in with Echo about the BB I’d sent to them with Corrin.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Fine tuned it’s functions a bit, based on the data that Lockne-Malingen sent through to me the other night,” Echo replies as I take a minute to lay flat on the workshop floor. “And yesterday Corrin set back out into the field with it. He’s heading back for Lake Knot, see if he can make it back east.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>With G</span><span>ardnos and the Libertas everywhere? Can he make it?” I as incredulously. I don’t doubt Corrin’s abilities as a Porter, but he is, after all, just a Porter. Now armed with a BB, but still...</span></p><p class="western">“<span>He was determined to get back to Port Knot – there was nothing I could say to convince him otherwise,” Echo says, their tone exasperated. “But, y’know. He’s a big boy.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah...guess so.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>You’re on your way here next?” </span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I nod, even though they can’t see me. “Yeah. Just taking a breather. It’s been...a long few days.”</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You’re telling me. I thought you’d fallen through a hole in the fabric of time and space itself,” Echo’s chuckle is a little strained. “Deadman’s been in my ear ever</span><span>y</span><span> moment the Network’s online. He’s been worried sick about you.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I guiltily remember how I haven’t responded to any of the messages Deadman had left for me...I haven’t even opened them yet. There’s something uncomfortable sitting in my chest just thinking about it – after having been made to believe that he was there, he was </span>
  <span>
    <em>real</em>
  </span>
  <span> – the knowledge that he’s still beaten and bruised and locked up in Capital Knot just makes me feel so unbearably sad. </span>
  <span>I’m hit with another exhausted wave of guilt, and all I want to do is sleep and make it all go away, like a bad dream. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah...I’ll get to that.” I can feel the words sticking in my throat.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Y’know, y</span><span>ou’ve still got a few hours of daylight left, Elle,” Echo says gently. “If you’ve got the energy, try and make it back to that safe house across the river – at the very least, you can get yourself cleaned up and have a decent place to sleep. I can’t imagine sleeping in the floor is very comfortable.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>I huff a short laugh, before hauling myself back upright.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Yeah. I know.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>The trek back down the tall slopes away from the South Knot locality ruins and Mama’s Lab is much easier than it was trekking </span>
  <span>
    <em>up. </em>
  </span>
  <span>In fact, I slide down the majority of it on my butt after my boot skidded off a rock and I went ass-up. </span>
  <span>The river crossing has swollen from what must have been a solid two days rain, and even though my body is tired, I push myself to concentrate – and when I Beach jump, this time I land on the other side on my first go. </span>
  <span>But it hits me like a punch, and I tumble over, feeling the blood already running down my n</span>
  <span>ose</span>
  <span>. It takes a bit to convince myself to get back up, and every step after is like my feet are filled with </span>
  <span>cement.</span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Despite having literally been unconscious for the last four days, I can’t help but feel d</span>
  <span>ead on my feet</span>
  <span>. I wonder if fighting back so hard without Quill’s Beach has somehow affected me physically. Without a doubt it was draining mentally and emotionally – but I had no idea it could affect me like this.</span>
</p><p class="western">I trudge back in the direction of the safe house, following the directions on my cuffs. Any tracks Corrin or I had left have long since been washed away by the rain, and I hear distant thunder somewhere to the north. I hope I make it there in time, even if all I do is fall face first into the private room and just pass out for a while.</p><p class="western">There’s a tiny voice in my head that chides me for being so tired. I haven’t even been carrying any cargo – I haven’t been out here risking life and limb to deliver necessities to people. I’m just going from one shelter to the next, making it up as I go along. What right do I have to be exhausted?</p><p class="western">I can’t help it, but as I drag my feet, the voice gets a little louder. More snide and confident. America’s Greatest Deliverer reconnected an entire nation with countless amounts of cargo piled high on his back; the weight of a nation’s hope. He fought terrorists and Beached Things and navigated a whole continent that was still young and wild. I’m hardly doing more than treading in his footprints. Even the path I’m walking, literally, right at this moment, was carved by him at some point.</p><p class="western">
  <span>The safe house comes into view, and the security scanners welcome me in with i</span>
  <span>ts ignorantly</span>
  <span> cheerful tone. It welcomes in </span>
  <span>
    <em>Sam Porter Bridges</em>
  </span>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p class="western">Despite the success of actually having stranded with Quill, I feel so unbearably overwhelmed the moment the outside world disappears and I step into the sterile serenity of the private room. There’s no trace anyone has ever stepped foot in here before, but as I drop my pack to the floor and stare at the bunk, I know that’s where America’s Saviour must have spent at least one nights rest. Corrin rested there, no doubt countless other Porters have as well over the years.</p><p class="western">So I break down, and I cry, and I curl up on the floor and hug my pack tightly.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">I wake sometime in the darkness of the early morning. I’m still curled up on the floor, but there’s a warmth around me. Like someone has lifted me into their lap. There’s a soft voice, humming a gentle tune, and in the darkness I shift to squint up at their face.</p><p class="western">It’s that woman, the one from the Beach. Her blonde hair falls in a waterfall down over her shoulders, and she looks down at me and smiles. Her smile is so beautiful, something squeezes painfully around my heart and I want to cry again.</p><p class="western">“It’s okay, baby,” she murmurs. “You’re going to be okay.”</p><p class="western">“I don’t...feel okay,” I mumble. I’m surprised I can even speak. She runs her fingers over my face, brushing back some stray strands of hair. “I’m so tired. I’m scared...I’m not enough.”</p><p class="western">“<span>I know, I know,” the woman says, her voice gentle and understanding. “But I know you’re enough. You’ll always be enough. Y</span><span>ou’ve done so many great things already</span><span>.” </span></p><p class="western"><span>I feel tears seeping from my eyes, but I can’t muster the strength to wipe them away. Her kind eyes stay in my mind as t</span><span>he room slowly blurs and</span><span> seems to darken, but I don’t feel </span><span>quite as</span> <span>upset</span><span> as I fall back into sleep in her embrace. </span></p><p class="western">When I wake again, the lights in the private room come up as it detects my movements, and I rub my eyes as I push myself up off the floor. My arm has gone completely numb where I was laying on it, and I wonder if I was simply dreaming the woman ever being here with me. Quill had said he’d guard my dreams...maybe that had something to do with it.</p><p class="western">Maybe not.</p><p class="western">I sit in the shower for a solid half an hour until my fingers are wrinkly and my skin goes red from the hot water. Even though I threw my jumpsuit in the decontamination chamber, it’s gone hard and crusty at the seams with Chiralium. Popping two of my meds, I dress but hardly recall doing so. My mind just feels numb and hazy.</p><p class="western">It’s well and truly daylight by the time I’m standing out in the open at the top of the shelter’s elevator shaft. The air smells of rain, and the blackened sand that stretches away from my boots is still damp. I find that Echo has left a brief message with a location ping on my cufflinks’ map, and turning myself in the general direction, I start walking. They’re my next port of call. I can only hope it won’t take too long to get there.</p><p class="western">Sometime around midday as I come around and down the last of the hillside that had stood between the safe house and what the map claimed to be flatter land, the rain starts again. Flashes of lightning flicker behind the dark clouds that coil over the distant mountain tops, and my hood hisses up as the first drops come drizzling down. It stays light and misty, just rain, not Timefall, thank goodness – but soon every step is just as much of a struggle as it had been last night. My legs feel like jelly, and I can’t feel my feet at all. Everything has quickly gotten very cold and very soggy, and the warmth from the shower this morning is soon just a memory.</p><p class="western">The uneven ground slowly becomes more compact underfoot, and suddenly I’m walking on gravel – looking up, I nearly yelp to see that I’m standing alongside a crop of waist-high grain stalks. Huge automated machinery sits silently at each end of the crops – several large fields of varying types of grass in different stages of life have suddenly sprouted up all around me.</p><p class="western">Off in the distance, there’s a huge shed standing dark against the clouded sky, and I head for it – even just to get out of the rain for a moment. A BRIDGES symbol has been marked across the hull of the great building, and a set of scanner poles ping quietly, welcoming me in under the Fragile Express ID tag. In that moment, I completely forget that this might be a facility under Libertas or Gardnos guard, and almost jump a foot in the air when a chiralgram pops up by the entryway to the building.</p><p class="western">“Hey there – in here!” It’s a man, probably in his late forties. “Are you a Courier? Out and about with everything going on in the Capital?”</p><p class="western">“<span>I’m with Fragile Express,” I puff as I step under the shelter of the entryway eaves. “But I’m not a Courier – I’ve been sent to get help.”</span></p><p class="western">The man gestures to usher me further inside.</p><p class="western">“<span>Come in out of the rain! It’s </span><span>quite the</span><span> unexpected shower right now,” he says. “We haven’t seen any Porters or Couriers in at least a we</span><span>ek</span><span> – we were scared they’ve all been hunted down by now! </span><span>Wait here, we’ll be right up.</span><span>”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Hunted down?” I sink down to my knees on the cold concrete floor just inside </span><span>as the chiralgram disappears</span><span>. It’s a massive warehouse, with a main access terminal and delivery hatch set to one side. All the walls are packed with shelves of grains and large metal barrels. </span><span>A small elevator hatch opens in the floor and the man reappears – in person – and there’s a young woman with him. She runs over with a large i</span><span>nsulated b</span><span>lanket</span><span>.</span></p><p class="western">“Here, you must be exhausted,” she wraps it around my shoulders, using the ends to wipe away the mud that’s collected on the legs of my jumpsuit. “Poor thing, poor thing.”</p><p class="western">I hadn’t realized before she had approached me, but I’m shaking. Even though just yesterday I saw Quill, left his shelter with a firm handshake and a slightly awkward farewell, but it feels so long since I’ve really been in actual human company. Cossy was the last person before meeting Quill that Corrin and I had sought shelter from...and that was five days ago now.</p><p class="western">“Hey, hey,” the woman wraps me in a big hug, rubbing my arms and pulling me close. “You’re soaked through poor dear. Stay with us, okay? You okay?”</p><p class="western">“<span>Y-yeah, yeah I’m okay,” I nod numbly. The man retrieves a bottle from a cabinet at the far end of the warehouse, and then he’s pressing a little glass of something strong-smelling and pungent to my lips. I sip on reflex, and a shot of something hot and berry-flavoured burns its way down my throat. “What was that?”</span></p><p class="western">“Just a bit of brandy, a little something to warm you up and make sure you don’t go into shock,” he says, kneeling down next to us and showing me the bottle. <em>Mulberry Brandy</em>, the label reads. “We’ll look after you kid, you look like you’ve had a rough trot.”</p><p class="western">
  <span>Half an hour later, my mind feels clearer and I’m perched on one of their crates of Timefall beer, and they’ve introduced themselves – Maye; </span>
  <span>an Environmental Scientist,</span>
  <span> and Alber, </span>
  <span>her p</span>
  <span>artner</span>
  <span> and Timefall Farmer</span>
  <span>. </span>
  <span>They listen as I slowly recount my end of the story, and t</span>
  <span>hey tell me how they’ve been feverishly </span>
  <span>listening in to</span>
  <span> the Network every time it comes live, as they’ve got a young son staying with relatives in South Knot. When I ask them what they meant about Porters and Couriers being </span>
  <span>
    <em>hunted down</em>
  </span>
  <span>, they exchange worried looks.</span>
</p><p class="western">“There was an announcement,” Alber says quietly, looking down at his feet with his arms crossed over his chest. “That Pandora woman made it three nights ago. All Porters and Couriers, regardless of their affiliation, were going to be hunted down on sight. So far...we’ve heard of three reported deaths.”</p><p class="western">“Shit,” I mutter, still nursing the little glass of brandy. It’s the first time I’ve ever had alcohol, and whilst I don’t much care for the smell or the taste, I appreciate how it’s warmed me through after getting sodden in the rain. I think of Corrin, and how Echo said he’d already headed back East. I hope he’s not among the deaths.</p><p class="western">“Shit is about right,” Maye nods. She’s sat next to me, making sure the blanket doesn’t slip from my shoulders. “Just when the world was becoming more inhabitable, there’s more people crawling out of the woodwork to screw it up again.”</p><p class="western">“So...if you guys are an official BRIDGES facility, why haven’t the Libertas locked you down here, too?” I ask after a moment. “All the cities have been put into lock down from what I’ve heard – when I came across the lake, I had to bypass Lake Knot altogether, Fragile said it was too dangerous to risk straying into the outer city boundaries – and I saw Libertas troops patrolling around the South Knot City walls, too.”</p><p class="western">“<span>Oh yeah, all the official manufacturing facilities and Distribution Centres have been targeted and locked down,” Alber huffs. “But thankfully we’re on the coast-side of a MULE zone. The the main access ways </span><span>to the</span><span> whole area </span><span>cut through</span><span> MULE </span><span>turf</span><span>, and those bastards have been getting more and more territorial in the last few months. We saw them fighting off a convoy – even though they’ve got non-lethal weapons, they sure as hell gave those terrorists a hell of a beating.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Thank goodness the Libertas won’t use lethal force unless ordered to,” Maye continues, closing her eyes and tilting her head to the ceiling like in prayer. “</span><span>They left the MULES alone after they were run off the turf, and </span><span>as a result</span><span>, n</span><span>o one’s come gunning for us</span><span>. For now, anyway.”</span></p><p class="western">“But the enemy of our enemy is not necessarily our ally,” Alber gives her a stern glance, and I think of Quill. Preppers, most likely people now connected to the Chiral Network and citizens of the UCA, were the ones who massacred his MULE family. “We just have to be careful, keep our heads down. Doesn’t mean we don’t try and do the right thing by others in need.”</p><p class="western">
  <span>Maye seems to have noticed my staring at her p</span>
  <span>artner</span>
  <span>, and she pats my arm.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>We took out some of our reserves, painkillers and first aid kits, and left it for them at the edge of their territory,” she says, and my heart unclenches just a little. “The very next day, we had a delivery drop from an unknown ID – they’d brought the weapons that the Libertas had dropped in the attack and left behind, and they left them here for us. We have a way to defend ourselves now if we’re attacked from the coast, because the MULES have no use for the weapons themselves.”</span></p><p class="western">“A bizarre situation,” Alber sighs. “Never thought we’d trade amicably with MULES. But here we are.”</p><p class="western">“Times change,” Maye smiles wanly.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">-:-</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Alber gives me a lift across the rocky fl</span>
  <span>at lands</span>
  <span> beyond the back of the Timefall Farm in his truck, dropping me off where the land meets the ocean, flat water bordering one side and the mountain range rising steeply away on the other. He and Maye refreshed my canteen of water, and even gave me a few more supplies including dried fruits they’d grown themselves in their underground bunkers greenhouses. Their help feels like more than I deserve, for what little progress I feel like I’ve made, but they cheerfully wave away my attempts to stop them from filling my pack. </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>They talk about how, years before, Sam Porter Bridges crossed hell o</span>
  <span>n earth</span>
  <span> to get them connected, bring them supplies, and how in the years since more and more Porters and Couriers have done the same to keep them safe and well connected. </span>
</p><p class="western">As I climb down from the cab, Alber joins me at the front of the truck, reaching out to shake my hand.</p><p class="western">“Be brave out there, kid,” he says with a tired smile, and I shake his hand.</p><p class="western">“Thank you for everything, for looking after me,” I reply. “I don’t know how this is all meant to work. I don’t know if it actually <em>will</em> work. But Fragile...she said we had to try.”</p><p class="western">Alber’s hand tightens around mine.</p><p class="western">“Listen, because you’re out here trying, that terrorist has reason to continuously broadcast her bullshit every night. To taunt you and the entire country with her power,” he says, but his eyes are gentle. “And because of that, every night we get to see and talk to our little boy. We sent him to the city for schooling, real proper schooling – and he got stuck there. When all this shit went down, Maye and I were terrified we’d never see our son again. But because you’re still out here, because you’re standing to oppose Pandora, there’s hope we’ll be reunited with our boy yet.”</p><p class="western">
  <span>My cheeks flush – like when Heartman had told Quill I was their hope, it feels like undeserved pride.</span>
</p><p class="western">“Thanks...but there’s no guarantee I’ll succeed.”</p><p class="western">“Hey. You think you’re the first to walk your ass across this continent with the weight of the world on your shoulders and the insurmountable threat of terrorists and Beached Things following wherever you go?” Alber chuckles, and I look up to meet his gaze. I already know who he’s going to bring up, and it sticks in my craw. “Sam Porter Bridges did the same thing, and he never knew if he was going to succeed either.”</p><p class="western">“At least he had the experience of the outside world, and he knew how the hell to handle himself,” I shrug uselessly. “I’m making this up as I go. I don’t really feel like I’m accomplishing very much at all.”</p><p class="western">“Well, take it from me. If he saw how far you’d already made it on this journey of yours, he’d be proud as hell,” the Farmer smiles at me. “I know you must feel pretty desolate out here on your own, but to people like me and Maye, you’ve made a lot of a difference already. Every night, we wait to speak to our son. Just remember that you’re stranding together more people than just the people you’ve been sent to find to ask for help.”</p><p class="western">Despite the rotten feeling of exhaustion and loneliness that’s made itself at home in my chest, there’s that little flicker of warmth again. Like when I realized that there had actually been people <em>missing</em> me when I’d been trapped on Quill’s Beach. People who wanted me to come back.</p><p class="western">So as we part ways, I promise Alber I’ll keep going, even if I don’t believe I can do it, and he promises that I’ll always have shelter at the Timefall Farm should I need it. The afternoon is getting late, but at least the rain has let up, and soon enough the sun is trailing away to the west horizon behind thick Chiral clouds. But it casts a nice, orange light through the cool evening air, and as I watch my shadow for a while as I walk, I feel a little less alone if I pretend there’s another me walking along beside me.</p><p class="western">Night falls and it’s well and truly dark by the time I round another bleak stretch of coastline, and the air grows brisker all of a sudden, the temperature dropping sharply and a Chiral tear rolls down my cheek. I’d been walking in the dark unafraid, but now I draw my hood up and flick on the headlamp to squint into the inky blackness.</p><p class="western">I hear them before I see them – shapes drifting the darkness just off the shoreline, making a quiet warbling noise. BT’s in the shape of jellyfish-like balloons, occasionally bumping into each other as they hover in the air. The reports I’d read on them had made them seem a lot more...menacing. But in reality, they just kind of bob and drift around – still, I move quietly under them, holding my breath as one or two pass close by, but the cold shivers over my skin soon fade as I leave them behind. I suppose without any provocation, they’re relatively harmless.</p><p class="western">About an hour and a bit later, my cufflinks ping softly. Opening my map, I see I’ve reached Echo’s general location. The shoreline between land and ocean has drawn wider, and I almost trip over what seems like an oddly shaped boulder – upon closer inspection, it’s actually a piece of building debris. The more I look, the more of it I see – building struts, broken pieces of masonry and crap seem to litter this stretch of shoreline. Suddenly, a bright light seems to swing my way from about half a kilometre ahead of me. A lighthouse is my first thought, and then, there’s a voice in my ear.</p><p class="western">“Elle, you made it!”</p><p class="western">“Echo,” I breathe, and Echo guides me closer – without any Timefall, there are no BT’s brought through the fade to our side, and the way is clear for me to directly approach the comms tower. The lower levels of it are almost completely destroyed, and further up looks like it’s had some extremely amateur patching up done over the years. There’s a busted access terminal next to the elevator hatch, and whilst the elevator creaks and groans under my weight, Echo reassures me that it is, in fact, stable enough to support me.</p><p class="western">“It’s much better up here, I promise,” their voice in my ear says, and despite going slowly, it surprises me just how high the tower extends skywards.</p><p class="western">From the ground looking up into the darkness, I couldn’t make out the full shape of the tower, but as the towers security automatically registers my cuffs, I get pinged with a general schematic of the tower, and from the diagram, it looks a bit like a bubble sitting atop two stilted legs. Finally, I reach the top, and the elevator slides open.</p><p class="western">I can’t help but wonder, for a moment, if I’ve walked into another dream. The interior of the comms tower is spacious, and relatively well kept, but there’s bean bags...cushions...pillows and blankets pretty much <em>everywhere</em>. The floor is more or less clear, but every other surface, including what looks like a little bed nook off to one side, is covered in soft furnishings and plush pillows.</p><p class="western">“What…?”</p><p class="western">“<span>E</span><span>lle, hi</span><span>!” </span><span>a large </span><span>egg</span><span> shaped chair spins around from a work desk on the other side of the hub, and there’s Echo, in the flesh. The voice in my ear, there’s finally a face to it, and I recognise them almost immediately – one of the photos that Valentine had shown me; they were in it with another young man. The two of them could have only been my age at the time it was taken.</span></p><p class="western"><span>But Echo’s</span> <span>features are drawn, slightly gaunt, and there are deep dark bags under their eyes; regardless, they come shuffling over; </span><span>barefoot and</span><span> wrapped in a large, fluffy blanket. It looks like a child’s bedroom, and Echo looks...like a child, snuggled up in a comfy blanket. A child that’s been abandoned, left to surround themselves with the only things that provide comfort.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Gotta apologise. Being here all alone all the time, I just...made myself comfortable as possible,” Echo says, a little hunched in embarrassment. “I sleep terribly, so I kinda just...doze wherever.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>It’s pretty well lit, with the same, clinical white LED lighting as the private rooms and other BRIDGES facilities, but it feels like a nest, a safe and cosy place. Echo shifts awkwardly, wringing their scrawny hands together as they see me looking around.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>It’s...pretty childish, isn’t it?” their voice is suddenly so tentative </span><span>and</span><span> shy. I muster the biggest smile I can possibly give, and laugh.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I love it, it’s awesome,” I say, stepping forward and wrapping Echo in a big hug, and they sag in relief, before opening up their blanket-cape-</span><span>cocoon</span><span> and draping me in it, too. It’s soft to the touch, and Echo is warm, and we stay like that for a blissfully long time, </span><span>the rest of the world just melting away for a while.</span></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>it feels sort of like a filler chapter, but i like how it came out. when's the next update? i have no idea. soon-ish c:</p><p>feel like following my Death Crossing tumblr blog to see all the story sketches, ideas, and general Death Stranding-ness is going up? find it here yo -&gt; death-crossing.tumblr.com  </p><p>see y'all in the next chapter</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>